Well Woven Net
by MisfitPaperMage
Summary: Alessar Tabris must overcome his own inexperience, and the disadvantages of his race, in order to help unite Ferelden against the Blight. He's assembling a motley team to do so, the latest addition being someone who just tried to kill him...
1. Rather Unexpected

**Knot 1: Rather Unexpected**

"You _do_ realize this is probably a trap, right?" Alistair murmured as the companions followed the distressed woman who had begged them for help.

"Could be." Alessar glanced sidelong at his fellow Grey Warden. "If it is, we're ready for it. If it's not, then someone honestly needs help."

"Does this altruism really pay all that well?" Morrigan said in the bored, disparaging tone that she used when she was irritated. "Grey Wardens – roaming the countryside, finding lost children, fixing broken wagon axles and solving marriage disputes. It's all so _very_ noble."

Alessar ignored the woman's pointed remarks. She seldom saw the value in doing what the others considered "the right thing" for the sake of one's conscience. Of course, she had a point, sometimes, and they did have more important tasks, but this _was_ right in their path, after all.

"It _could_ pay well, Morrigan, depending on who we might be helping... or un-helping," the elf said calmly. "If they're bandits, then everyone will be well rid of them, don't you think?"

"Whatever you wish," the mage sighed. "I suppose we may gain something worth our while."

Alessar mentally thanked the Maker that Leliana had not decided to add her own commentary – although he knew she'd vote for helping someone, if help was needed. The discussion was distracting, however, and if they were about to walk into an ambush, he was the one most likely to notice their attackers first, as well as any traps laid out for them. He held up his hand for silence as they came into a shallow ravine, where a cluster of wagons stood, apparently abandoned.

Their "guide" now spoke to a figure in expensive-looking leather armor, a slender blonde man with the build of a rogue. He seemed far too well turned out to be a bandit, and he certainly didn't look like the victim of a raid. The stranger's hands went to the sword and dagger sheathed across his back as their party approached, and as Alessar shouted a warning to his companions, he realized, with a shock, that the figure was an _elf_!

He had no more attention to spare on that startling revelation as an immense boulder was dropped into the mouth of the ravine, blocking their retreat. Armed men appeared from behind the wagons and amidst the rocks, and archers took positions on the sides of the ravine above them.

"_The Grey Wardens die here!_" the stranger-elf declared as he brandished his blades.

The enemy melee fighters charged, and arrows began to rain down on them; Alessar let Leliana and Morrigan take care of firing back at the archers, and followed Alistair, using his speed to dodge behind his fellow Warden's targets and attack from behind. This kind of battle was no place for the niceties of a face-to-face duel, after all. The two of them cut through several thugs before Morrigan shouted out: "The woman, you fools! She's a mage!"

"I _hate_ when she does that," Alistair said in exasperation, looking around for the woman who had led them here. "A-ha!"

The warrior charged towards the enemy mage, barreling over one of the sword-and-board thugs on the way. Alessar followed to clean up, but a sudden feeling of prescience made him whirl to the side and raise his longsword desperately, just in time to intercept a slice that might have removed his ear.

"Ah, and here we are," said the elven leader of the attack, recoiling from the blocked strike. His speech was tinged with an unfamiliar accent, and this close, Alessar could see that his skin was a golden-brown color. Where in Thedas was he from? "Another elf? An interesting turn of events."

Thank the Maker, the arrows had stopped. Either the women had taken care of the archers, or said archers didn't want to risk hitting their captain. Whatever the case, Alessar was glad of it; he would need his complete attention for this fight, he could tell. "Nothing so interesting about it, is there?" he said coolly, although the truth was, he was quite curious as to how this man had gotten command of a squad of humans. It was almost impossible to imagine a Fereldan city elf being allowed to do such a thing. Perhaps things were different, wherever this stranger came from?

He tried a few tentative feints, attempting to gauge the other's skill, but the stranger parried the feints almost lazily, clearly having seen them for what they were. "On the contrary, I find it fascinating." Smoothly, his parries melted into a two-handed flurry of strikes, longsword and dagger weaving in counterpoint as he bore down hard on Alessar.

It was all the Warden could do to block the rapid attacks. He was a two-blade fighter himself, but clearly not nearly as well-trained as his opponent. He wondered if he could possibly afford to wait for the other elf to tire, or if he could even defend himself for that long.

"Ah, a steady defense. You do not make this easy for me. Very well, I suppose I shall have to earn my pay today." Faster than Alessar could follow, the stranger disengaged from his attack and dodged to Alessar's off-hand side, his sword easily sliding past the dagger the Grey Warden hastily raised in defense. He felt the blade nick his throat, but before it could cut any deeper, the other elf suddenly crumpled to the ground.

"Aaaand that's what he gets for not wearing a helmet," Alistair said dryly, lowering the pommel of his sword. "Are you all right?"

"Fine," Alessar grunted, feeling the wound on his neck. A scratch, only, though it was bleeding. A quick glance around showed that the leader had been the last to fall.

"Well... what do you want to do with him?" The other Warden nudged the elf on the ground with his boot, none too gently. "Put him out of our misery, or...?"

"No... Let's see if we can get him to talk. He doesn't really look like a bandit, does he?" Up close, Alessar could see the quality of the elf's gear, armor and weapons alike. What was actually happening here? "He clearly knows we're Grey Wardens, and he said something about earning his pay..."

"An assassin, perhaps?" Leliana said as she drew closer, looking curiously at the fallen elf. She still had an arrow nocked on her bow, though she had not drawn.

"Now there's a comforting thought. Someone likes us _that_ much to–"

Alistair's sarcastic commentary was cut off by a groan from their would-be attacker. "Quickly, bind his hands," Alessar said urgently, looking around for something that would work. There was a brief scramble as Alistair found a suitable coil of rope in one of the wagons, and in a few moments, the stranger was trussed like a gamebird for the spit, his wrists tied together behind his back, and those tied to his ankles. He groaned and pulled weakly against the ropes as they tied him and propped him up on his knees, but he wasn't truly conscious, yet.

Morrigan saw fit to change that, delivering a sharp slap to the elf's face. Alessar couldn't help but wince at the sound, but quickly schooled his features into what he privately thought of as his "aggressively expressionless" look.

"Mmm... what? I..." The stranger slowly opened his eyes, which were a surprising shade of amber, and caught sight of his four captors. "...Oh." He glanced at them each in turn, his gaze finally coming to rest on Alessar. "I rather thought I would wake up dead. Or not wake up at all, as the case may be. But I see you haven't killed me yet."

Alessar crossed his arms, letting a hint of anger show. "I thought maybe I should torture you, first." He was a little dismayed by the stranger's reply.

"Ohhh, so you kept me around to have a bit of fun, did you? Hmm." The elf flashed him a grin. "But the purpose behind torture is usually to interrogate, yes?" he continued. "In that case, despite the potential for fun... perhaps I'll save you a bit of time and get right to the point. My name is Zevran." He inclined his head in greeting, as nonchalantly as if they had just met in the market square. "Zev to my friends. I am a member of the Antivan Crows, brought here for the sole purpose of slaying any surviving Grey Wardens." He glanced from Alessar to Alistair and back again. "Which I have failed at, sadly."

So Leliana had been right. Alessar agreed with his fellow Warden – this was definitely not comforting news. "Who hired you to kill us?"

"A rather taciturn fellow in the capital. Loghain, I think his name was?" Zevran closed his eyes for a moment, chasing the memory. "Yes, that's it."

Hearing Alistair's quick intake of breath, Alessar raised his hand again for silence. He, too, felt a surge of anger at hearing that name, but it would be much simpler, and much faster, for one person to ask the questions, rather than some or all of them demanding answers. "Does that mean you're loyal to Loghain?" he demanded.

Zevran shrugged, a mildly impressive feat, given how he was tied. "I have no idea what his issues are with you. The usual, I imagine. You threaten his power, yes?" His tone seemed to indicate that this was a common enough reason to hire a professional assassin. "I was contracted to perform a service. Beyond that, no, I'm not loyal to him."

"And now that you've failed that service?"

"Well, that's between Loghain and the Crows. And between the Crows and myself," Zevran said with another shrug.

"And between you and me?" Alessar pressed.

The foreign elf's lips quirked up in a half-smile. "Isn't that what we're establishing now?"

Alessar rolled his eyes slightly, realizing that this man was going to be extremely irritating to question. "What are the Antivan Crows?"

Next to him, Leliana spoke up, though she never lowered her bow. "I can tell you that. They are an order of assassins out of Antiva. Very powerful, and renowned for always getting the job done... so to speak." All four of them looked at the assassin, who grimaced. "Loghain must have gone to great expense to hire this man," the minstrel finished.

"Quite right," Zevran said approvingly. "I'm surprised you haven't heard much of the Crows out here. Back where I come from, we're rather infamous."

"Not for being good assassins, I see," Alessar said somewhat distractedly as he digested that. Antiva... he had certainly never been there to know firsthand, but that likely explained Zevran's accent and complexion. Hiring Antivan assassins just to be rid of Ferelden's last two Grey Wardens? Did Loghain really fear them that much?

"Oh, fine," Zevran said in a hurt tone. "Is that what you Fereldans do? Mock your prisoners? Such cruelty."

"Why are you telling us all of this?" Alessar asked, exasperated.

"Why not?" the assassin replied carelessly. "I wasn't paid for silence. Not that I offered it for sale, precisely."

"Aren't you at least loyal to your employers? These Crows, if not Loghain?"

"Loyalty is an interesting concept." Zevran shook his head slightly and met Alessar's gaze. "If you wish, and you're done interrogating me, we can discuss it further."

"What is there to discuss?" Morrigan interjected. "He–"

Alessar shot her a quelling look, then turned to Zevran, crossing his arms impatiently. "I'm listening. Make it quick."

"Well, here's the thing," Zevran began in a more businesslike tone. "I failed to kill you, so my life is forfeit. That's how it works. If you don't kill me, the Crows will." He looked intently at Alessar. "The thing is, I like living. And you obviously are the sort to give the Crows pause. So let me serve you, instead."

The Warden half-expected the others to butt in at this point, but they were apparently all waiting to see what he would do, even Morrigan. "You must think I'm royally stupid," he said, raising an eyebrow.

"I think you're royally tough to kill," Zevran corrected him. "I'm only _hoping_ you're stupid." There was a slight creaking sound as Leliana drew back on her bowstring, and the Antivan shook his head. "That was a joke," he said quickly. "Let me rephrase that. I'm _hoping_ that you're the sort of fellow that takes a chance every now and again. Yes?"

"And what's to stop you from finishing the job later?" Alessar asked, regarding the assassin with slightly narrowed eyes.

"To be completely honest, I was never given much of a choice regarding joining the Crows." Zevran looked down at the ground, his eyes tracking memories in the dust. "They bought me on the slave market when I was a child. By now, I think I've paid my worth back to them, plus tenfold." He looked up at Alessar with a slightly mocking smile. "The only way out, however, is to sign up with someone they can't touch."

"Hiding behind the Grey Wardens, then? Marvelous," Morrigan said contemptuously.

Zevran shrugged, his gaze never leaving Alessar. "Even if I did kill you now, they might kill me just on principle for failing the first time. Honestly, I'd rather take my chances with you."

He was probably being foolish, or at least foolishly sentimental, but by now Alessar was a little intrigued by Zevran's story. An elven child bought as a slave and raised as an assassin? Horrible. But unfortunately, not impossible to imagine. "What do you want in return?" he asked. They could probably _not_ afford whatever he had been paid to kill them, and anyway, none of them were there to make a profit. If the assassin wanted money, they'd have to find something else to do with him.

"Well... let's see," Zevran said in a thoughtful tone. "Being allowed to live would be nice, and would make me marginally more useful to you," he said with a sardonic grin. "And somewhere down the line if you should decide that you no longer have need of me, then I go on my way. Until then, I am yours." He tilted his head questioningly. "Is that fair?"

Alessar took a moment to try to think this over rationally. No matter what, he couldn't kill the man now. They had him at their mercy, and he wouldn't abide with murdering a prisoner in cold blood for sheer pragmatism. So... they could turn him over to some authorities, somewhere, but who? If he had been hired by Loghain, it was possible that any noble who sided with Loghain would shelter or even aid the assassin, and maybe hire him to try again. But on the other hand, according to Zevran, if they turned him loose, the Crows would probably kill him. He didn't _want_ to leave. They only had his word on that, though. What if the Crows would do no such thing, and Zevran truly would just bide his time to make a second attempt? A full-on frontal assault was precisely the wrong way to try to attack their party, but slitting their throats at night?

Still... the Antivan seemed sincere in his desire to escape his former comrades – he said everything so blatantly that it was hard to believe he was lying. He didn't ask for sympathy, as, Alessar thought, someone trying to worm his way into their good graces would do. And really... their company already consisted of two hunted Grey Wardens, an apostate, a qunari murderer, and a possible madwoman. Why not an assassin, too?

"Very well," the Warden said finally, " I accept your offer."

"What?!" Alistair sputtered. "You're taking the assassin with us now? Does that really seem like a good idea?"

"I'm sure we could use him," Alessar said calmly, although the look he shot his fellow Warden promised that they would discuss this later.

"All right, all right. I see your point," Alistair sighed, waving his hands in defeat. "Still, if there was a sign we were desperate, I think it just knocked on the door and said hello."

"A fine plan," Morrigan said mockingly, looking at Alessar in amused disgust. "But I would examine your food and drink far more closely from now on, were I you."

"That's excellent advice for anyone, in these times," Zevran said sagely, smiling charmingly as Morrigan turned to glare at him.

"Welcome, Zevran," said Leliana, perhaps trying to make up for Morrigan's hostility. She finally lowered her shortbow. "Having an Antivan Crow join us _does_ sound like a fine plan."

"Oh? You are another companion-to-be, then?" Zevran looked her up and down and smiled. "I wasn't aware such loveliness existed amongst adventurers. Amazing."

"...Or maybe not," Leliana murmured, casting a despairing glance at Alessar, who glanced heavenward for patience. It seemed that this Antivan was far too fond of the sound of his own voice.

"Now if one of you would be so kind as to untie me, at least a little, I will make a proper vow to your fearless leader." The assassin looked around for a volunteer.

Leliana stepped forward, then belatedly glanced back at Alessar for permission. "Go ahead," he said wearily. "He's not much use to us all tied up."

"O-ho, you say that _now_, my dear Grey Warden," Zevran said with an unmistakably lascivious chuckle as Leliana began untying him. At first Alessar didn't follow, but then he realized what the other elf was referring to... or at least, he _thought_ he did. His own expression must have been a mirror of Alistair's: a few degrees short of horrified. Maybe this really _wasn't_ a good idea...

Once unbound, the assassin went to one knee in front of Alessar, head bowed, looking for all the world like a faithful retainer vowing service to a lord. The Warden looked down at him in surprise.

"I hereby pledge my oath of loyalty to you, until such a time as you choose to release me from it," Zevran intoned solemnly. "I am your man, without reservation; this I swear."

"...Thank you, Zevran," Alessar said uncertainly as the other elf looked up at him. That had been an unexpected bit of formality, but it certainly sounded more binding than a simple "Yes, I'll work for you", he supposed. Perhaps he was meant to believe that Zevran would be less likely to break such an elaborate vow. "If we're done here, though, we should be on our way." He glanced around at the others; Morrigan seemed impatient to leave, Alistair still looked concerned, and Leliana was watching Zevran curiously.

"Ah, yes, by all means, O Captain," Zevran agreed as he rose to his feet. He accepted his blades from Alistair and re-sheathed them at his back. "And that prompts me to ask: What may I call you all?"

Alessar was left alone with their newest recruit for the moment. The others began to systematically check the wagons and the fallen thugs for any useful items; their road was far too difficult to pass up on whatever supplies they could glean. Well, he supposed they trusted him enough to be able to protect himself for a few minutes, just in case Zevran really _did_ try to attack...

"The dark-haired mage is Morrigan; our archer is Leliana; my fellow Warden is Alistair, and I am Alessar." He glanced at the assassin, waiting for the inevitable comment. It was guaranteed to come up every time the two of them introduced themselves.

"...Alistair and Alessar? Charming names, to be sure, but is that a Grey Warden thing?" Zevran asked, one eyebrow raised.

The dark-haired elf sighed and shook his head. _Every single time._

_

* * *

_

_Author's Note:_

First in an expected series of short stories, a little adventure of my _Dragon Age: Origins_ character, Alessar. ;D Yes, I picked that name COMPLETELY by accident! Talk about fate. XD

Please note that a good portion of the dialogue from when Zevran wakes up until his oath is directly from the game. Some of it has been massaged a little to make better sense in context, and text has been added, especially for the non-player characters, but the bulk of it -- most of that being Zevran's personal story -- is verbatim. I just wanted to flesh out the scene a bit more, especially from Alessar's point of view -- it's nice to have a hint of why someone would spare the life of someone who had been hired to kill them, after all.

Dragon Age: Origins and all characters here besides Alessar belong to Bioware and their wonderful writers.


	2. Unkind Cuts

**Knot 2: Unkind Cuts**

Alessar stood in front of the campfire, arms crossed, and stared morosely into the flames. Their foray into Denerim had been _dismal_. He supposed he should be happy that they hadn't been caught and turned in to Teyrn Loghain for the bounty on their heads, but other than that, very little had gone well.

Not only had they not found Brother Genitivi, but it seemed that someone had tried to impersonate his apprentice, to throw any callers off of the trail of the Urn of Sacred Ashes. Bloody peculiar business, but at least they had been able to find Genitivi's research. It was going to be a long haul to the Frostbacks, looking for the little town of Haven, however; he figured they could stop at the Mages' Tower on Lake Calenhad on the way. He hoped that recruiting the help of the Circle of Magi would be a relatively simple thing, but nothing had been _simple_ so far...

Not even reuniting with family. Alistair had hesitantly revealed that he had a half-sister in Denerim, his mother's elder child. The templar had had no idea, growing up – and who would have told him, after his mother died? – but once he became a Grey Warden, he had done a bit of research and discovered the truth. Since the group's path led towards Denerim anyway, Alistair had shyly asked Alessar if he would go with him to find his sister in town, and the elf had gladly agreed. What they found, however, was not what either of them had expected.

Goldanna had been resentful of Alistair's status and apparent "good life" – not to mention the fact that their mother had died at Alistair's birth. Alessar could see where her feelings came from, but to express them out loud, so baldly, seemed unimaginably harsh. When he had tried to point out that his friend could hardly be blamed for the direction his life had taken, the woman had turned her shrewish demeanor towards _him_.

His ears buzzed in remembered anger and embarrassment. "_And who in the Maker's name are you? Some elf to follow him about and carry his riches for him?_" she'd said to Alessar. The templar had rebuked her sharply for that, which was comforting, at least, especially in retrospect, but Goldanna's comment had been a virtual slap in the face at that moment.

Alessar supposed that he had gotten too used to the respect he'd won from the knights and village folk alike in Lothering and Redcliffe; in Denerim he was back to being seen as a jumped-up servant or the like. Although, sometimes that had its advantages; in this same day, he had talked his way out of a fight with a knight who had thought he'd recognized the elf as one of the Grey Wardens from Ostagar. Of course, he _was_, but to a lot of humans, an elf was an elf; they didn't bother trying very hard to tell them apart. He claimed ignorance to the belligerent knight, and luckily, the lie had worked handily.

With the gulf between himself and Goldanna becoming increasingly apparent, Alistair soon became uncomfortable and decided to retreat, though not before promising to try to help his sister, using his position and status if he had to. She had moved away from her anger, somewhat, but she still had sounded dubious of Alistair's real desire, or ability, to help her. Once they left, Alistair had seemed heartbroken, and Alessar was even more angry at the woman for being so unpleasant to her long-lost brother than for her offhanded insult towards him.

His mood had soured still further when he had tried to go to the Alienage to check on his own family and friends. The group was turned away at the gate; apparently the Alienage had been locked down shortly after his departure, and it sounded as if it were partly his fault. The human guard at the gate spoke of "purging" the Alienage... the word made Alessar's skin crawl. He had wanted to demand further information from the guard, but – of all people – _Zevran_ had caught his attention with a subtle touch on his arm, and had shaken his head slightly, discouraging a confrontation. Seething, Alessar had turned away from the guard, away from his former home. He didn't know if it was good or bad that he hadn't seen anyone on the other side of the massive gate; he might have gotten some news from someone inside, but on the other hand, if anyone in the Alienage had seen him come and leave... what would, or could, they think?

After buying some much-needed supplies, Alessar had led the group out of the city in what his cousin Shianni would call a "royal snit". He had spent most of his life trying not to offend humans, to placate them and not raise their ire. After he and Soris stormed the Arl's palace and rescued their wedding party, though, nothing had seemed the same. Alessar was through with licking boots and bowing to the yoke, just because some... _most_... humans saw elves as little better than slaves. (Or slaves in truth, according to Zevran.) He'd always been polite and non-confrontational, just by nature, but he would no longer extend that to appeasing those who thought him no better than a beast of burden.

Of course, he knew better than to think he could change people's behavior after hundreds of years of the elves' subjugation... but at least he was seeing that not all humans were so close-minded, and he clearly had changed a few opinions. He snorted quietly to himself as he remembered meeting Ser Perth in Redcliffe. The knight had been exceedingly polite, but obviously slightly ashamed, when he had to admit, "I know not how to address an elf in your position." Because, of course, elves held no titles. But Perth seemed like a good and honest man, and winning acknowledgment from him and his fellows had felt like a small, but important, victory.

As bumpy as Alessar's life had been, though, being an elf in the Alienage, he now knew that some still had it far worse. He glanced towards Zevran, who was chatting lightly on the other side of the fire with Leliana; it sounded as if they were discussing music. The assassin seemed to notice he was being watched, and he looked over at Alessar with a slightly inquisitive smile. Embarrassed at being caught, the Warden quickly lowered his gaze to the flames. One couldn't really eavesdrop on a conversation that was being held out in the open, but still, manners were manners. He hadn't really meant to listen, anyway.

It was, then, particularly embarrassing when he heard Zevran – charmingly, of course – cut his conversation with Leliana short, saying something to the effect that their leader seemed to be in dire need of some cheer. The minstrel agreed, her tone sounding sympathetic. Well, that was no surprise, bleeding-heart that she was. Fortunately, she usually had some sense to go along with her caring temperament, and had given both he and Alistair some space after their dual disappointments in the city. Actually, Alessar would have expected her to try to talk about it a little, _certainly_ before he'd expect that from someone who had tried to kill him.

But then, Zevran would probably understand Alessar's anger better than anyone else. The Antivan elf had been bought as a slave and then honed into a killing tool, from what he had said so far of his past. No better off than the hawks that some human nobles trained to hunt for them, Alessar thought. Deadly killers, leashed and hooded and bound to wait for their masters' whims.

"A bit for your thoughts?"

Alessar looked up at the assassin, who was now standing beside him. "I'm not sure they're worth that much," he muttered. While he did think Zevran might be a willing ear, he wasn't sure if he wanted to dredge up all the resentment he had been keeping buried in order to get his work done as a Grey Warden. It might be therapeutic, but...

"No? I would imagine that the thoughts of a Grey Warden are quite valuable," Zevran said with a slight laugh. "I thought a copper bit was perhaps too low a bid."

"Should I be offended, then?" Alessar asked, amused despite himself.

"Hmm, I seem to have steered myself into dangerous territory," the assassin chuckled. "Let me start over again." His expression grew more serious. "Are you all right? I am sorry that you were not able to see your family..."

"It's not about _seeing_ them..." Alessar began. As he met Zevran's glance, he knew that the other elf understood the real fear. Was his family still safe? Still alive? "Maker's Mercy, _purging_ the Alienage? What does that even mean?"

Zevran shook his head helplessly. "Perhaps we can find out more through subtle means... Or if we can gather support to unseat Teyrn Loghain, perhaps we can stop whatever is happening. Until then, though, causing a scene in the middle of the market district seems like an ignoble way to end your quest." He seemed no happier than Alessar at the situation, his mouth twisted in a grimace of distaste. "I am sorry, it was rather presumptuous of me to interfere."

"No, you're right," the Warden sighed. "As it is, that guard might still report that some elf bearing arms wanted to get into the Alienage... I just hope that..." he trailed off. No one in their little group besides Alistair had the slightest idea what he had done to get himself conscripted into the Grey Wardens in the first place... but if anyone would _not_ condemn him for that, it would be Zevran. ...Wouldn't it?

"Hope that... what?" the Antivan prompted.

"...I hope that no one realizes that it was _me_. I... don't want my father or my friends to be singled out," Alessar said quietly. He couldn't do it. Not yet. That confession could cool the others towards him considerably, and he and Alistair simply could not afford that right now. He wouldn't lie if he was asked directly, but for right now... he simply couldn't speak of it willingly.

Zevran seemed to sense that there was more he wasn't saying, but he merely smiled sadly. "Ah, I see. Well... perhaps it will be fine. Observe that incident with the inebriated knight. He clearly recognized you, but was easily persuaded he was wrong. An elf is just an elf, after all," he said, an uncanny echo of Alessar's thoughts. "We all look alike, yes?"

Of course, between the two of them, this was patently untrue; Alessar, with his black hair and pale skin, and Zevran, with his eye-catching blonde hair and dark skin, looked like polar opposites. Still, sometimes people just seemed to see the ears first, and nothing beyond that. The Warden had to roll his eyes at the notion that someone wouldn't be able to tell them apart.

Then again, that wasn't the point, was it? It wasn't that they were _identical_; it was that they were _interchangeable_. He wasn't sure which was worse.

"I guess I should be glad I look so plain," Alessar said sardonically. "Standing out seems to offend people, somehow."

"_Plain?_" Zevran's laughter was genuine. "Surely you jest, my friend, or perhaps you hold no appeal to these cloddish Fereldan people. But yours is not a face to forget. I'm sure many a fair maid has told you so, yes?"

The Warden looked at Zevran dubiously. "Of course not. Certainly never a _human_ woman, and, well..." He thought of the young elven women in the Alienage, his cousins and friends that he had grown up with. They didn't marry within the walls of their little community, so thinking of any of his friends in _that_ sense had really never been an option. "We don't do a lot of courting in the Alienage," he said finally.

"Hmm... I see." The assassin looked at him speculatively for a long moment. What was going on behind that deceptively lazy gaze, Alessar couldn't even begin to guess. "Things are very different in Antiva, I suppose. I was being pursued by married noblewomen by the time I was fifteen." He sighed as if in pleasant reminiscence. "Ah, my misspent youth."

Alessar wasn't sure if Zevran was _quite_ serious, but he figured that wasn't really the point. But what _was_ the point? He raised an eyebrow at Zevran, waiting for the moral to this story.

Zevran chuckled quietly. "Oh, but I digress. I merely meant to say: you are not 'plain' by any understanding I have of the word, my Grey Warden. If humans fail to notice you, it is their loss, as far as I'm concerned."

Somehow that hadn't been exactly what Alessar was expecting. This hadn't been the first time Zevran had inferred that he found the Warden handsome, but it seemed more... sincere?... and less of a little comment dropped to discomfit him. It felt strange. "Thanks... I think," he murmured, looking towards the fire.

"Hmm, I don't seem to have done a very good job of lifting your spirits," the Antivan elf mused. "Perhaps I should have left that to Leliana."

"No..." Alessar still didn't particularly want the bard's sympathy, not right now. "No, it helped, a bit. I guess I've been pretty well distracted, anyway."

"Ah, now distraction _is_ something I'm good at," Zevran laughed. "I'm glad to have helped, then."

The Warden nodded slightly. "Thank you, I appreciate it." Their eyes met for rather longer than necessary, until finally Alessar had to look away from the intensity of the other elf's amber gaze.

"Well... I should let you get back to your important leadership activities, hmm?" Zevran said with a quiet chuckle. "If you wish to talk, however, I am, as the saying goes, at your disposal." He smiled and bowed as one would to one of the Bannorn before turning on his heel and making his way to his tent.

Alessar watched him go, bemused. Befriending someone who had been hired to kill him was one of the last things he expected to be doing, but then, life as a Grey Warden seemed to be full of these little surprises...

* * *

_Author's Note:_

A bit of elven angst from Alessar, among other things. (Yes, I'm a bit tapped for commentary. ^^;)

Dragon Age: Origins and all characters here besides Alessar belong to Bioware and their wonderful writers.


	3. An Unintended Turn

**Knot 3: An Unintended Turn**

Alessar glanced over as his fellow Grey Warden trudged up next to him. The group walked in a loose formation when they were on the move across the countryside, and the elven Warden was currently taking the lead – not because he actually needed to _lead_, but because he wanted some time alone to think.

Of course, by now, Alistair knew exactly why his comrade would isolate himself at the front of the column, and usually he would leave him in peace. But they'd become a little closer since the events at Redcliffe, even if Alistair _had_ been furious at Alessar's decision to let Lady Isolde sacrifice herself. They had discussed it at length, and while Alistair was still unhappy about it, he no longer held it against the other Warden. They had tried to do the best they could to keep the greatest number of people safe. These were wartime decisions, and Alessar privately thought that his brother-in-arms had better get used to making them, or at least accepting them.

"Something on your mind?" Alistair asked casually. He looked off into the distance as they marched, towards where Lake Calenhad lay beyond the horizon.

"Well... yes. Several things, really, but... one thing in particular at the moment." The elf shrugged as if it were of little import. Truth be told, he wasn't sure Alistair was the right one to discuss the matter with, although he certainly was the closest friend Alessar had in this company.

"One thing... or one _person_?" Alistair drawled. "Now that I'm close enough to see, I can tell your ears are blushing."

The elf's eyes widened. "Oh, by Andraste's sword," he swore under his breath. He wished his emotions weren't so very obvious. It was utterly unfair.

The other Warden smirked. "I'm sure girls find that completely adorable. The whole 'oh innocent me' thing."

"Like you're one to talk," Alessar retorted. "You grew up in the Chantry, right? I bet you've never..." he trailed off, leaving that open to interpretation.

"Never... Never what? Seen a basilisk? Eaten jellied ham? Never licked a lamppost in winter?" Alistair's grin was positively impish.

"You know what I mean," the elf said, rolling his eyes.

"Hmm, do I?... Well, you tell me: have _you_ ever licked a lamppost in winter?" The Templar's tone made it fairly clear what he was really asking.

"No... I haven't," Alessar said evenly. He had been related in some degree or other to most of the girls in the Alienage, and of course, he and Nesiara had never actually been wed, let alone made it to their wedding night. Other than that... he saw intimacy as something to be taken seriously, and would never have casually slept around. Not before, at any rate. Now, with his life truly in danger almost every day, his thoughts on that were starting to change...

"I haven't, either," Alistair admitted. "Not that I haven't thought about it, but... you know. Chantry."

The elf nodded in understanding. Obviously, there would be few opportunities for a boy in a Chantry to get acquainted with girls.

"And now... I don't really want to rush into anything, you know?" Alistair continued. "We... may not even survive what's to come, after all."

Alessar looked at his friend curiously; that was almost the opposite way than his own thoughts had trended. "I suppose that's fair." It seemed that the other Warden had placed sex on an even higher pedestal than Alessar had – it sounded more like he was talking of a much deeper commitment. Well, to each their own; there was nothing wrong with that, although it surely meant loneliness in the short term...

"You don't agree?" Alistair guessed.

"Not... exactly. I mean... before I joined the Grey Wardens, I probably would have agreed with you completely. But now... I don't know, I don't want to regret _not_ doing something..."

"Hmm." Alessar could tell that the Templar still didn't agree, but he didn't argue the point. It was, after all, an intensely personal decision to make. "But now you've totally sidetracked me. Just why were your pointy little ears turning red?" Alistair dropped his voice to a near-whisper. "Have you got your eye on one of the ladies? I hope it's not Morrigan." He mock-shuddered. "She'd eat you alive, you know. Or have her way with you and then turn you into a slug."

"Maker's Mercy, no," the elf said with a weak laugh. How in the world was he going to broach this without sounding... odd?

"Leliana? She does seem to like you..." Alistair mused. "I bet she could teach you a thing or two... And I _don't_ mean about lockpicking," he smirked.

Alessar shook his head mutely. Now, he knew, the blush had spread to his cheeks. He was glad no one else was close enough to see. Leliana _was_ very pretty, and he privately agreed with Alistair; even if she had been a cloistered sister before she joined them, she had been a minstrel in Orlais before that. She probably knew some... interesting things. He had _tried_ not to think of any of his companions in that way, however. "That's not it at all. It's just... something someone said..."

"Said? Yesterday in Denerim, or...?" Now the other Warden was regarding him curiously.

"No... at camp." Alessar silently took a deep breath. Oh, Alistair was going to think him mad, for more than one reason. "I... was talking to Zevran, about the Crows."

Alistair frowned slightly, puzzled at the seeming change in topic, then he scowled as he realized something. "Is he saying weird things to you? He's said some pretty outrageous stuff, but I think he's just running his mouth. I wonder if that's some kind of Antivan thing. But anyway, I don't think you should take it seriously."

The elf snorted and rolled his eyes. "Oh, I know... I don't take most of what he says very seriously, either, I'm pretty sure he's just messing with us. But..." He rubbed the back of his neck nervously. "I think he was serious. About what he said."

"Really." Alistair's tone conveyed amused disbelief. "And what exactly was that?"

"He said that, er..." This was even harder to say out loud than Alessar had expected. "That he fancies me...?"

The other Warden looked at him dubiously, one eyebrow raised, but his expression turned to surprise as he saw how serious Alessar looked. "He... does? What, he came right out and said that?"

"More or less... I mean, he asked me if it would offend me if he said that..." Alessar could easily recall Zevran's exact words; the comment had been very poetic, he thought. _"I fancy things that are beautiful and things that are strong. I fancy things that are dangerous and exciting. ...Would you be offended if I said I fancied you?"_ He had been taken completely by surprise... Which, he thought, was probably why he was having so much trouble with it.

"If it would _offend_ you? And what did you say?" Alistair asked. He seemed to be simultaneously fascinated and horrified, like someone listening to gossip they hadn't really wanted to hear in the first place.

"I... I was kind of thrown, you know?" the elf stammered. "And he said that they're okay with that sort of thing where he's from, and did that bother me? So I said no... I mean... just that fact doesn't _bother_ me, but I don't..." He realized he was babbling and fell silent for a moment, biting his lip. "I don't... I mean, I'd never thought..."

Sure enough, Alistair was looking at him strangely, although that might have been for his nervous delivery as much as anything else. "All right. So he's flirting with you – maybe seriously – and you, er... you don't know how to feel about it?" he summarized.

"...Right," Alessar sighed. At least he had that off his chest now. But what did the other Warden think?

"Um. Well, all right... I suppose the first thing you need to ask yourself is: _does_ the fact that a man is interested in you bother you?" The Templar seemed somewhat uncomfortable with this subject, but he seemed willing to at least try to help his friend sort out his own feelings.

Alessar appreciated that immensely, but he still didn't have any answers. "I... I don't know." He had the feeling, though, that the fact that he wasn't utterly repulsed probably meant that the possibility was there for someone to win him over, if they played their cards right. It was a little frightening.

"...Well." Alistair seemed a bit taken aback. It was probably all starting to sink in now, Alessar thought. "If we set _that_ aside, what about the fact that this particular man just tried to _kill_ you? Doesn't that seem like, I don't know, kind of a small problem?"

"...Yes, it does." The elven Warden shook his head. "You're right." And Alistair _was_ right, he knew. Zevran was very personable to converse with, and they had a great many things in common... But it was impossible to forget that the other elf had been hired to kill them, and had nearly succeeded, in Alessar's case. It was probably still too soon to really trust him, especially _that_ much. Even if he really wanted to.

Alistair nodded slightly. "Just... you know, watch yourself with him, all right?" he said awkwardly.

"I will." Alessar gave his friend a small smile. "Thanks... for listening. Even though I imagine you might be regretting it."

"What I'm _regretting_ is the mental imagery," the Templar said in a pained voice, but he managed to grin slightly. "But what are friends for, right? Besides helping you wipe out darkspawn."

Alessar had to smirk at that. "Right, sorry, feel free to replace the mental images with something more to your liking now."

"Aaaactually... It's about lunchtime, isn't it? And lunchtime makes everything better," the other Warden said with growing enthusiasm. He clapped Alessar on the shoulder. "Find us a good spot on the roadside, and I'll spread the word." Not waiting for a response, he turned and walked back down the column, letting the others know they were about to make their midday break.

Alessar sighed and looked up at the scrubby grass on either side of the road. Finding a resting spot would be quite simple. Finding some sort of resolution to his current confusion, however, was clearly going to be quite difficult...

* * *

_Author's Note:_

Hmm, I'm not sure how much I like this. I don't know if it's really very Alistair-like to have this conversation, but it just sort of... developed. ^_^; It also encompasses two of my favorite conversations -- VERY different from each other XD -- in the game so far. Who'd have thought I'd hit upon them both in the same story? :P

I'm a bit torn as to whether this conversation would really be in-character for Alistair. If you have an opinion on the matter, let me know!

Dragon Age: Origins and all characters here besides Alessar belong to Bioware and their wonderful writers.


	4. Unpleasant Dreams

**Knot 4: Unpleasant Dreams**

Alessar and his companions were more than happy to set up camp on the shore of Lake Calenhad, rather than taking the offered room inside the Circle Tower. Even if the apartments they had been offered had been untouched by the blood mages' rampage, none of them wanted to stay in that building any longer. Now that they had a roaring bonfire going, each member of the party sat or stood near the blaze, or farther away on their own, according to their temperament.

They had picked up yet another addition to their group, the senior enchanter Wynne. Alessar was glad to have a spirit healer along with them, and her motives seemed to be the very best. That might cause some tensions in the future, he knew, but as he and Alistair had long since agreed on, they needed all the help they could get. He would talk more with Wynne later, but for now, she was resting after their bizarre ordeal in the Fade and the subsequent battle against the blood mage Uldred.

The Fade nightmare had been... disturbing. Alessar began to pace in front of his tent, feeling a renewed stirring of anger towards the Sloth demon who had trapped their minds in the dream realm. Their hopes and fears had been dragged out and used against them, and it seemed that without the help of the mage Niall, they might have never escaped. As it was, it had been far too late for Niall...

At least they had put an end to the Sloth demon, but there had been little satisfaction in that, only a small appeasement of their anger at the invasion of their minds.

He wondered if the others had seen his "trap", though it hadn't sounded like it; everyone had been bound within their own little world, and he had been the first to break free of his and seek out the others. He was still wondering why the Sloth demon had tried to tempt him with something so... foreign. Yes, he would like to see Weisshaupt some day and meet the other Grey Wardens... And he would be quite glad to have Duncan back, if not for his own sake, then for Alistair's. It had been tempting to believe that their task was finished, but... had the demon really thought that chatting with Duncan in Weisshaupt would lull him into passivity?

It seemed that the creature had approached them all differently, though... he had found Alistair locked in a happy, peaceful existence with his sister Goldanna and her family. Alistair hadn't wanted to leave, but the elf finally had managed to make him remember what had been happening before they had fallen under the demon's sway.

Wynne, on the other hand, had been trapped in despair, surrounded by the bodies of dead mages. She had been convinced that her failure had led to their deaths. But even if she _was_ responsible... she had a greater responsibility to the Circle and to Ferelden, and Alessar merely had to remind her of it. She had been perhaps the easiest to free, no doubt because duty was an even heavier burden than grief...

He hadn't even known how to react to Zevran's predicament. It had seemed to be a vivid demonstration of what he had endured in his Crow training: Alessar had found him laid out on a rack, tortured by two other elven assassins. The Antivan had tried to brush off Alessar's illusion-piercing logic as distractions that he had to ignore to satisfy his trainers. His desperation to succeed had chilled Alessar to the core, all the more because Zevran had seen it all as something that had to be endured, rather than something to resist. Of course, from what Zevran had said in the waking world, Crows who failed in training perished...

Even when the Grey Warden had finally convinced Zevran of the truth behind the illusion, the assassin had been too shaken, or maybe too hurt, to fight the false Crows when they turned on the two elves. It had been hard to believe – the Antivan usually swept into battle gleefully (unless, of course, he was sneaking up behind someone). To see him cowed, even afraid, angered Alessar even more than his other companions' predicaments had. Maybe he was projecting too much; maybe his own cold, lingering resentment towards the treatment of his people, his friends and family, swayed him too far towards any elf he saw as oppressed. But whatever the reason, the image of Zevran, bewilderment in his eyes as Alessar battled his tormentors, continued to haunt him.

As if the thoughts had summoned him, Zevran spoke quietly from behind Alessar. "You seem rather perturbed, O Captain," he said, a note of uncharacteristic solemnity tempering the levity in his voice.

Freed from his train of thought, Alessar realized he had been clenching his fists tightly as he paced, and he took a deep breath to try to relax. He was mild-mannered by nature, but some few things made him so very angry... "I suppose I am," he said finally, turning to look at Zevran.

The assassin was regarding him curiously, his expression inviting the Warden to say more, but Alessar only shrugged. "It was just... too much to take in," he sighed, sitting down at the base of the large poplar tree near his tent. Ovden, his mabari war hound, trotted over to whuffle at him for a few moments, and Alessar gave the dog's ears a good scratching. Having a dog around was quite therapeutic, but he'd never known that, growing up; few of the elves of the Denerim Alienage would have ever been allowed to touch a mabari, let alone claim one as their own. Of course, Ovden had more claimed _him_ than the other way around, but if he had been anything other than a Grey Warden – or for that matter, if he hadn't been traveling with Alistair – some uppity human noble probably would have tried to confiscate the hound by now.

Surprisingly, Zevran sat down next to him – not uncomfortably close, but certainly near enough for conversation. Ovden happily went over and whuffled him as well.

"Ah, you are truly a lucky fellow," the Antivan elf said with amusement as he patted the large dog. "Here in Ferelden, you are the king of beasts! Admired by all!" Ovden barked happily at that, his docked tail-stub wagging. "Hmm, I think, however, we should find something for your breath, yes? It would make conversing with you much more pleasant." After a few more friendly scratches, he gave the hound a shove on the shoulder. "Off with you now. Perhaps you can find us a rabbit for supper, or some such thing."

Alessar reinforced Zevran's dismissal with a hand signal; Ovden barked once, plaintively, then bounded off. Perhaps he really would go hunt them something – he had done so before.

"A most faithful friend," the assassin chuckled. "But, now that I have you all alone..." he said with a cheerful leer.

The Warden was beginning to realize that Zevran's constant, blatant come-ons were, at most, half-serious. He had gotten the impression that the Antivan was trying to deflect attention from himself by distracting (or disgusting, depending on the individual) his new companions with his shamelessness. Knowing that helped Alessar to keep his composure; the last thing he wanted to do was put himself in a position to be teased further if he started to blush. It had happened a couple of times already.

...Of course, that was only with regards to Zevran's almost comically amorous remarks. Some of the more sincere things he said were equally unsettling, and couldn't be laughed away...

"...Was there something you wanted to discuss?" Alessar asked, feeling somewhat self-conscious as he picked up a fallen twig and began to snap it into little pieces.

"I? No, not so much," Zevran said easily. "_You_, however, looked like a stormcloud over Rialto Bay, my friend. I thought perhaps you might wish to talk. If that is not the case, however, I can most certainly understand, and I will leave you to your pacing."

That was one of the funny things about the Antivan that Alessar appreciated: when he wasn't teasing, he was rigorously courteous about boundaries. The Warden supposed that may have been because he hoped others would be as circumspect about his own privacy, but given how casually Zevran spoke of horrible things, it was hard to tell...

"...I'm not sure, really," the dark-haired elf said as he threw the little bits of twig, one by one, out into the dark. "Just... everything that we saw in the Fade... I feel like I shouldn't have seen what I did..."

"Ah. So you had to step in to everyone else's nightmares the way you did mine, hmm?" Zevran mused. "I suppose that might feel intrusive..."

Alessar nodded. That was exactly how it felt. _He_ shouldn't have seen those facets of people's feelings, and the Sloth demon shouldn't have used them in such a way.

"You _are_ our Captain, though," Zevran said with a slight grin. "Surely if we had to trust anyone with our deep, dark secrets, we would prefer a most honorable Grey Warden?"

"I've only just met Wynne, or you, for that matter," Alessar replied, grimacing.

"Ah, but you are so clearly trustworthy, you see. Why else would I indenture myself to you?" the assassin countered, grinning roguishly.

"You never know, I might be biding my time until I kill you in your sleep," Alessar said off-handedly, glad of the momentary distraction from the heavier conversation.

"_Oh?_" It was amazing how Zevran could confer amusement, disbelief and curiosity with a single syllable. "You are most certainly welcome to come into my tent any night and try," he said archly.

_Blast, I walked right into that..._ Maddeningly, the Warden felt the tips of his ears growing hot – he _was_ blushing, curse it all. Zevran noticed also, and his grin widened.

"Of course, if your assassination attempt should fail, that would leave me with the very interesting question of what to do with you at that point, yes? I might be forced to tie you down for my own safety..."

Alessar held up his hands in defeat. He could handle banter with Alistair, but he was no match for the Zevran in a duel of words, or at least, not when the assassin was armed with innuendo. "Forget I said anything," he muttered.

"Ah, then there will be no assassination attempts? How disappointing." The Antivan elf chuckled quietly. "Very well. But to reiterate: you _are_ our leader. I think most of us trust you not to use this... knowledge for any ill purpose."

Well, that was true enough. He might try to talk to each of them individually about their nightmares, but he would never bring them up otherwise. It just seemed wrong. "I wouldn't, no... But..." He looked up at Zevran, wondering if he dared to ask, but he gathered his nerve and pressed on. "What I saw in your nightmare... did that... really happen?"

Zevran looked slightly surprised at the question, his eyes widening almost imperceptibly before he recovered his nonchalant demeanor. "Ah... I don't remember if that exact scenario happened," he said lightly, "although I have been through similar ordeals, and I remember the faces of those two miscreants, as well."

Alessar couldn't quite tell if the assassin was lying, but he supposed it didn't really matter if that precise scene had happened. Just the fact that Zevran _had_ been tortured in such a way...

"That's... horrible," he said, somewhat awkwardly.

"Fairly horrible, yes," Zevran agreed. "But it was either survive it, or not. And I was not willing to take that second alternative, so."

The Warden might have asked why Zevran did not simply leave the Crows once his training was complete, but he already knew the answer: one was not allowed to leave the Crows and live. That was why the assassin was with them, after all.

"The look on your face," Zevran said with a slight laugh. "The important part is that I survived, yes? And now I'm here."

Alessar nodded. "I can't imagine _how_ you survived years of that, but..."

"Ah. Stamina and endurance, my dear Grey Warden. Two very important qualities for many endeavors, yes?" The assassin grinned teasingly.

That little jab didn't catch Alessar quite so off-balance, and he merely rolled his eyes, drawing a laugh from Zevran. "So now you have seen a heartwarming glimpse of my past," the Antivan said wryly. "If it is not too forward of me... may I ask what you saw in your own nightmare?"

Alessar didn't feel like his vision had been so intensely personal; he had no real problem discussing it, although he had imagined having this particular conversation with Alistair, not Zevran, who likely didn't even know who Duncan was. Still, it might make him feel more at ease to tell _someone_...

"I was... at Weisshaupt, or so they said," he began.

"Weisshaupt?" Zevran's brow furrowed for a moment in thought. "Ah – that is the stronghold of the Grey Wardens, is it not?" At Alessar's nod, he continued, "But surely you have never been there?"

"No, I haven't. Perhaps the demon pulled some memories from Alistair's mind to fool me... or maybe Weisshaupt is nothing like what I saw." The dark-haired elf shook his head. "I suppose I won't know unless I go there myself. But at any rate... Duncan was there, the man who recruited Alistair and I into the Grey Wardens. He tried to tell me that the Blight was over..."

Zevran raised an eyebrow. "I see... so the demon was trying to lure you into complacency?"

"It seemed that way." Alessar winced slightly as he remembered the nightmare-Duncan calling him ungrateful. Even knowing now that it had all been a lie, it still hurt a little to think that he was failing the trust of the Wardens somehow.

He looked up to see Zevran regarding him intently. "Hmm. You tell this as if it were a simple thing to escape, but I think it was harder for you than even you might realize," the assassin said thoughtfully. "Would you not be glad for the Blight to end?"

"Of course I would!" Alessar said, more sharply than he intended. "... I'm sorry, Zevran. I just... I knew it felt wrong. I... expect this to be very difficult, killing the Archdemon and all. Waking up and it suddenly all being over and done with? It seemed too... too easy, I suppose."

"Interesting, that. You had to choose the difficult path to break free... Whereas I had to believe in the easy path," Zevran observed. "A peculiar experience, all in all."

"'Peculiar' is one word for it," Alessar muttered.

"Truly, I could think of several more, many of them terribly impolite," the assassin agreed.

There was little to say to that, so the two elves sat in only slightly uncomfortable silence for a while. Alessar sensed that there was something else Zevran wanted to discuss, but he wouldn't press... Nor did he want to end up in any more verbal battles of wit. The Antivan's flirting, meaningless as most of it was, made him imagine things that he had never had any intention of thinking about. Ever.

Not that he particularly had anything against men with men, or women with women, in the abstract, but for his own part... well, he had been about to wed a pretty girl the day he had been conscripted, and he had been relatively content with that, or so he thought. Nervous, oh yes, but content. Some... _other_ sort of path in life had never really occurred to him.

But his world had been turned upside-down that day, and now, here he was, a Grey Warden, traveling across Ferelden, killing darkspawn and fighting blood mages... and being flirted with, not entirely disagreeably, by a man who had tried to kill him only a few weeks before. Very little of it made sense, that last part least of all.

And anyway, even though the assassin did, undeniably, have his charms, Alessar still wasn't sure he trusted him that much. Trusting someone in a battle where you were both fighting for your lives was one thing, but... alone? Without armor and totally vulnerable? He truly _wanted_ to believe that Zevran had turned his back on his murder-for-hire ways, and the Antivan's nightmare had been strong evidence that he had no love for his former organization. But it was hard to forget the feel of a sword scraping his neck, and more than that, the light in Zevran's eyes when he had seen victory in his grasp...

"Hmm." Zevran broke the silence, finally, and looked over at Alessar, his amber eyes reflecting the light of the campfire. "Now that we have mentioned the finishing of your great task... I have a question for you," the assassin said seriously.

"Oh?"

"Once this is all over with, what do you intend to do with me?" Zevran's expression was open, honestly curious.

"I... Well, I mean, I thought you could leave, if you wanted." Alessar hadn't really thought much about it – there was still so much to do between now and then, small things like _overthrowing Loghain_ and _defeating the Archdemon_. Besides, Zevran had voluntarily sworn himself into service; Alessar wasn't keeping him there. "You're not really my prisoner."

"Mm, that is true, and I only swore to serve you until you no longer had need of me," the other elf said with a slight nod. "But what if I didn't wish to leave?"

Alessar frowned slightly, a little nervous now. "Why wouldn't you? If we all make it out of this, I'd think you'd have long since paid back your debt to us." Was he still worried about the retribution of the Crows? Even so far in the future? Or was he going back to some particular things he had said to Alessar before...?

"It is... difficult to say." Zevran looked away, towards the fire. He seemed to be considering his words, and it was several long moments before he turned his gaze back to Alessar. "Is there no one I might stay for?"

The Warden stared at him speechlessly for a moment. Could he _possibly_ be saying what it sounded like he was saying? Maybe he hadn't meant it that way... Maybe he simply meant that he enjoyed having comrades who wouldn't kill him if he failed to meet their expectations. But... Zevran was a master of sly conversation and double entendres. He _had_ to be aware of how people would interpret the things he said. Surely he knew, or could guess, what Alessar would make of his question?

But of course, he wouldn't know the answer... and neither did Alessar. Not right now, anyway.

"That's... I mean, whoever you would want to stay for, that's your own decision to make, isn't it?" he asked carefully, looking down from Zevran's bright gaze.

"I suppose that's true," the assassin agreed, not sounding completely satisfied with that answer. "Although I would never stay somewhere I wasn't wanted."

_Oh, Maker. What do I say to that? What_ can _I say to that?_ It was too serious a moment for a glib reply, although he could think of several of those. "I... doubt you will have worn out your welcome," he said finally, hoping that Zevran would understand his hesitance. It was just... too soon, and too large a thing to get his head around at the moment.

"Ah? That is good to hear," Zevran mused, his tone almost imperceptibly lighter. Alessar finally dared to look up at him; the other elf was regarding him speculatively, and smiled as he met Alessar's eyes. "Now I–"

The Antivan was interrupted by Ovden's sudden return. The great hound dropped a hare, bloody and still warm, in Alessar's lap, and then sat down, looking thoroughly pleased with himself.

Grimacing slightly, the Warden picked up the hare and stood. "...I suppose there's still time to add this to supper," he sighed, giving Zevran a look of apology. Inwardly, though, he couldn't help being a little relieved. The discussion had become too intense for his comfort; what he needed now was some time to think.

Fortunately, the assassin looked quite amused. He also rose to his feet, and gave the dog a few congratulatory pats. "It seems that you understood me after all, yes? Amazing." Ovden's tail-stub wagged happily. "However, I think we need to have a discussion about timing and privacy, hmm?"

Alessar smiled and shook his head as he walked towards the fire. Hopefully Alistair hadn't ruined the rest of the meal yet.

* * *

Author's Note:

I always wondered why the player's Fade sequence was so impersonal... no wonder s/he had no problem breaking out! XD

Dragon Age: Origins and all characters here besides Alessar belong to Bioware and their wonderful writers.


	5. Undisclosed Fears

**Knot 5: Undisclosed Fears  
**

Alessar stood at the fringe of the woods, looking back towards the group's campsite. They had had to spend more time than expected fighting the maddened Havenite cultists, and he had no desire to try to climb halfway up a mountain – with an injured guide – near or after nightfall. Who knew who (or _what_) could be waiting up there? Instead, they reluctantly decided to camp for the night, outside of Haven proper; they would make their way up to the old temple in the morning. Genitivi had chafed at the delay, until Alessar pointed out that breaking his _other_ leg while stumbling about on a mountainside would make it very difficult indeed to study the temple at all, once they got there. The scholar finally relented and was now sleeping soundly, probably for the first time in days.

It was getting late; supper had been several hours ago, and most of the others were talking quietly, or were contemplating things on their own. Morrigan was still studying her mother's grimoire that Alessar had found in the Tower; Leliana was playing a tune on her lute, with Alistair and Wynne for an audience as they both tended to their equipment, one with a sharpening stone and the other with a needle and thread. Sten sat, as usual, at a distance from the others; what went through his mind was, as ever, a mystery. And Zevran was, of course, walking towards him, smiling easily.

When Zevran had told Alessar that he wanted a few moments to talk in private, the Grey Warden had been of two minds about it. On the one hand, he had always made a point, as the _de facto_ leader of this little band, to be available to listen to everyone's concerns. He had no wish to make all of the decisions he had to make without input from the others; there was just too much at stake with virtually everything they did to simply bull through on his own.

On the other hand... he knew what the Antivan elf wanted to discuss – or at least, he thought he did – and it had little to do with their quest.

The Grey Warden had found what he thought was a pair of Antivan leather boots in the town's tiny store. Remembering Zevran's story about the boots he hadn't bought before coming to Ferelden, Alessar had offered his find to the assassin, thinking that if they fit, perhaps he'd like them. Not only had the boots fit, but Zevran had seemed honestly touched by the gesture, and maybe a bit surprised that Alessar had remembered his little anecdote. As the group headed back to the Haven Chantry, the Antivan had stealthily come up behind him and murmured his thanks, his lips brushing against Alessar's ear. While that might have startled anyone, Alessar had gone absolutely rigid in a split second of total fear. There was no mistaking that for a simple flinch of surprise, and when the Grey Warden turned quickly to see him, Zevran wore a distinctly hurt expression for just a moment before he reined himself in and the cocky grin returned.

"A little jumpy, aren't we, my Captain?" was all he had said; without waiting for Alessar's reply, he had followed the others up the hill. The Warden had felt horrible for it, and he still did, but instinct was instinct... and right now, his instinct was still telling him that letting the assassin get so close to him was a very bad idea, no matter what his rational mind said.

He looked up at Zevran as he approached. The other elf's smile faded as he drew closer to Alessar; his expression became unusually serious, and in the half-light from the campfire, he looked almost grim. "There is something I'd like to discuss," he said quietly, his amber eyes still bright, even in the near-darkness.

"...Yes?" The Grey Warden leaned back against the broad trunk of a beech tree, trying to maintain a calm demeanor. His heartbeat was drumming faster than he would have preferred, however. How did one talk about this, really?

"I have seen these little indications..." Zevran said deliberately as he moved closer, "that you are still... _wary_... of my presence." He now stood no more than two feet in front of Alessar, well within striking distance, the Warden couldn't help thinking. "I can see how you grow tense," he continued, taking another half-step, "when I am this close to you..."

Indeed, Alessar had unconsciously gone quite tense, his senses hyper-aware. Part of it could be explained away as nervousness, perhaps – the same fluttery, apprehensive feeling he got when, for instance, that rather fetching maid at Redcliffe Castle had offered to keep his bed warm for the night... And just to complicate things further, that nervousness was compounded by the fact that Zevran was a man. The Warden had finally gotten his head around the fact that he _did_ find the other man attractive, and that the world wouldn't end because he did, but... he didn't really know what to expect, or how to handle a man's advances. At least when a girl came onto him, he had a general idea of what she wanted...

But he knew that the true root of his trepidation was something else entirely.

He tore his eyes away from Zevran's intense stare and looked down, but before he could turn away completely, the assassin anticipated the movement and reached out to caress his cheek lightly with one hand. The Warden froze in place, but did not move away, and allowed Zevran to gently turn his head so that they were eye to eye again.

"I've tried to show good faith," the assassin murmured, "and to accept the mistrust of the others. But from you..." he slowly reached up and cradled Alessar's face between his hands. "From you I had hoped for better."

The Warden's pulse was pounding loudly in his own ears, and he was half afraid that the other elf could hear it. He wanted to say something, to tell Zevran how badly he _wanted_ to trust him, but he couldn't find his voice. He simply stared at the Antivan mutely, trying not to think about the first time he had seen those flashing eyes so closely.

Seeing how his "prey" made no move to escape, Zevran smiled ever so slightly, and finally closed the small gap left between the two of them. Alessar instinctively closed his eyes as the assassin leaned in, but Zevran didn't kiss him; he simply rested his forehead against Alessar's, and they shared breaths in silence for several long moments.

"I could have killed you long ago, if I had wished to," Zevran said softly. "I could kill you now and be long gone before your friends found you. I could poison all of you easily enough. But I _don't_ wish to. It's that simple."

He pulled back and looked at Alessar searchingly. The Warden nodded slowly in acknowledgment, but between the unwelcome fear and the muddled, but powerful, sense of attraction, it was becoming a little hard to think straight...

"I... I believe you," he said hesitantly. "You gave your word that day, and I've _always_ believed you." He lowered his gaze. "But I can't forget... when you nearly..." How could he explain how deeply that memory stuck with him? That the Antivan's eyes, bright with the exultation of an impending kill, might have been the last thing he saw before he died?

"Ah." Was that a tinge of regret in Zevran's voice? He gently tipped the Warden's chin up and traced a line across his throat with one finger. There was no scar from what had been a shallow cut, but the memory itself had left its mark. "No... I don't suppose anyone could forget that," he murmured absently, as if thinking of some unfading memory of his own. "I can't apologize for trying to do my job, but I am sorry for... making you feel this way."

Alessar closed his eyes and sighed silently. Finally voicing that fear – if it could be called something as simple as that – was a relief, as was Zevran's understanding. But it didn't really _solve_ anything. Maybe he could eventually work his way through it, but...

"This just proves my point about not mixing business and pleasure," the assassin muttered, as if to himself. Before Alessar could open his eyes and reply, he felt the press of lips against his own, and let out a muffled sound of surprise.

He felt Zevran draw back, and opened his eyes to see the other elf studying him, his bright eyes difficult to read.

"Hmm. You have had some training in these arts, no? Do you know how one can make himself immune to certain poisons?" Zevran asked, tilting his head thoughtfully.

"Er..." The apparent _non-sequitur_ took Alessar by surprise, until he thought about the answer. "...You take them in small doses... So that you become accustomed to them..." he replied slowly.

"Precisely, my Grey Warden." Their eyes met for a long moment; Zevran made his intention quite clear before leaning in to kiss him again. Forewarned, Alessar did not flinch this time, even when the other elf's hand slid past his forelock braid and into his hair. Now, though, his heart was racing for a very different reason, and after several suprisingly sweet moments, he broke away, feeling flushed and a just a little dizzy.

"Mmm, one dose at a time, I suppose," Zevran said with a knowing grin. The look in the assassin's eyes revealed that he was targeting the Warden for a very different sort of "mission" now, and for Alessar, that prompted a very different, but not at all unpleasant, sort of apprehension.

* * *

Author's Note:

I'm a little concerned that Zevran comes across as _too_ serious here, and perhaps too forward as well. To the first part, I will say that Zevran was willing to discuss his last mission at this point in my game, so a totally serious conversation wouldn't be entirely out of the question, I think... As for the second, all I can say is that you'd _have_ to be forward to get anywhere with Alessar. XD;; More seriously, I would think that Zevran could read him well enough to know how his advances would be taken... ;) He's not a complicated fellow, after all.

But! If you disagree, do feel free to discuss! :o

Dragon Age: Origins and all characters here besides Alessar belong to Bioware and their wonderful writers.


	6. Uncomfortable Truths

**Knot 6: Uncomfortable Truths  
**

It was still almost impossible to believe. Had they really, truly, found the Urn of Sacred Ashes, the last earthly remains of the Prophet Andraste?

Alessar brushed his hand over his belt pouch again, knowing that nestled inside, wrapped a tiny envelope of oilcloth, was a pinch of those ashes. They had seen a High Dragon, they had been questioned by the shades of Andraste's contemporaries... they had somehow fought phantom copies of themselves, and they had even walked through fire. All of that to finally come to Andraste's final resting place. For a short time, their worldly concerns had seemed almost trivial in comparison.

He certainly wasn't the most religious person, but it was the Chantry, and their rules and laws and history, that he had little love for. Like many elves, he had a sense of reverence for Andraste herself, for what she had done and the message she had _tried_ to leave for Thedas. To see the secluded temple, the great statue of Andraste worn featureless by time, the Urn itself... To touch the Ashes... It had filled him with a sense of wonder, of awe, that he'd never experienced.

The others had been deeply affected as well, he knew; even Zevran, who had tried at first to make light of the situation, quickly fell silent, perhaps left without glib words for once. They had lingered in the chamber of the Ashes for a while, by mutual agreement; none of them were Chantry scholars, to analyze the room and all its contents, but this was likely something that they would ever experience again.

In that room, everything had seemed real, or _beyond_ real, somehow, as if the reality of the Ashes overrode everything else. But out here in the cold, crisp air of the mountains, it began to feel like a fading dream. Only the fact that they had all experienced it reassured him that it was truth.

Then again, they had all been trapped in the Fade together once before... could it have happened again? Somehow, he doubted it. They had all felt "holes" in their nightmares in the Fade, but this had been seamless, whole. And... he had to admit to himself, he wanted it to be true. Even if Genitivi had his way and the mountaintop became a site of pilgrimage, _they_ had been there first: the first supplicants to thread the Gauntlet in probably hundreds of years.

...Of course, if the Ashes could not cure Arl Eamon... All the spirituality in the world couldn't help them, and it would come down to blades and spells again.

The Grey Warden sighed softly to himself and looked out over the campsite. They had finally made it down the mountain and back to the outskirts of Haven after dark. The temple of the Ashes was one thing, but Haven was another – he would be damned glad to shake this place's dirt off of his boots in the morning. As it was, he was ill at ease, worried at some sort of sneak attack by the remaining villagers who they hadn't killed in self-defense the day before. It seemed unlikely, but... one never really knew.

Thinking of sneak attacks turned his thoughts, unsurprisingly, to Zevran. He glanced surreptitiously at the assassin, who was apparently re-lacing the leather grip of his vicious-looking qunari saw-sword. The thing looked like some unholy bastard child of a war axe, a wood saw, and a longsword; it was considerably too heavy for Alessar to use, but Zevran was stronger than he was, and had found the ugly, but well-made, sword to his liking. "Not very subtle," he had admitted, "but the darkspawn have no appreciation for subtlety, anyway."

The Warden wanted desperately to talk to Zevran about what the Guardian of the Ashes had asked him. The Guardian had questioned them all, seemingly reaching into their hearts with ease and pulling out their deepest hurts, the blights on their souls that had played some part in leading them here. Alistair's had been no real surprise, and to hear that calm, wise Wynne sometimes had doubts was also not a real shock, if one thought about it. Both of their admissions had obviously been painful, as Alessar's own had been, but Zevran's...

They hadn't even heard the entirety of the Guardian's ponderous question before the Antivan had angrily interrupted and admitted his regret. Alessar had never seen the normally easygoing elf so agitated before. Obviously whatever it was that he regretted bothered him deeply. But what was it? Someone he had killed in the past, it had sounded like? A woman?

He had tentatively tried to approach Zevran about it as they walked back down the mountainside, but he had barely opened his mouth to speak before the assassin had neatly distracted him with some hair-raisingly bad Antivan sex poetry. By the time that conversation drew to a close, the moment no longer seemed right to bring up old murders and regrets.

Alessar had the feeling that bringing up the subject any time was going to be difficult, but he wanted to _know_. For all of Zevran's frequent bluntness in talking about his past, there were still so many things they didn't know about him. Not that they all didn't have their own secrets, but...

_Admit it, you're just burning up with curiosity because the Guardian brought it up in the first place,_ he berated himself. Ignorance was bliss, after all, and now that he was no longer ignorant about the matter, he was discontent.

_Well. Since I'll not be able to get it off my mind now, I might as well have another go at it,_ he thought in resignation. As he rose, the necklace that the phantom-Shianni had given him (_how?_) rapped gently on his brigandine. He picked up the chain and contemplated the pendant for a moment as it spun slowly: one side smoothly polished silver, like a mirror, and the other etched with what looked like an archaic Chantry symbol.

The first time he'd looked into the mirror-side, he thought he'd seen a glint of _someone else's_ eyes – familiar green eyes, and not his blue ones at all. It had to have been Shianni, but had he imagined it? Or....

Wondering if he'd ever see his cousin again, he tucked the necklace under his armor and made his way over to where Zevran sat. The Antivan heard him coming, of course – studded leather armor was ill-suited to stealth – and rose to greet him.

"_Tsk,_ look at you... all of this trekking up and down the mountain, slaying drakes, trying to outwit religious madmen, it's obviously taken its toll on our dear Captain." Zevran held him at arm's length, looking him over like a tailor sizing up a customer. "Do you know what you need?"

Alessar raised an eyebrow. He wasn't quite sure if Zevran was joking or not. "Do tell."

"My thought is this." The assassin lowered his voice to an intimate murmur. "We retire to your tent, and I show you the sort of massage skills that one only learns growing up in an Antivan whorehouse." He met Alessar's eyes and grinned.

The Warden felt the blood rising in his face. There was no real question as to what Zevran was _really_ proposing... "I... I don't know, Zevran, I'm not sure that's a good idea," he stammered, looking down.

"What is there to fear, my dear Grey Warden?" the other elf asked with a quiet chuckle. "You deserve a little fun, do you not?"

"It's not that," Alessar began, but he paused a little too long as he searched for the right words.

"Ah... If you're not of a mind, then, it is no tragedy." The assassin shrugged philosophically and grinned. He seemed at peace with that, but Alessar wondered if he was more disappointed than he let on.

"I... It's not that," the Warden repeated, causing Zevran to look at him intently. His felt his ears burn even hotter under the other elf's full attention. "It's just... we're not exactly alone..." he muttered. That was... a partial truth. It certainly wasn't his _only_ reason for keeping Zevran at a distance for a little while longer, but it was a legitimate one. The last thing he wanted was for the rest of the camp to overhear... whatever it was they might overhear.

"Ah." Zevran grinned wickedly. "Bashful, are we?" Of course, he already knew that was true; they all did. Baiting the young Warden to make his ears turn red was a fairly frequent game among certain members of the company. "Very well," the assassin chuckled, "I'll accept that excuse, for now." His tone hinted that he might not, the next time – and that there would definitely be a next time.

Alessar took a deep breath, trying to regain his composure. Had the other elf just intentionally sidetracked him _again_? Or was it just a coincidence? It was hard to tell, with Zevran's jovial demeanor. Perhaps he'd been planning to proposition the Warden all evening, or perhaps he honestly had just seen Alessar's state of weariness and thought to offer his own sort of relief. Or, well, maybe he had guessed exactly why Alessar had come over, and had acted quickly to head him off.

"Zevran," the dark-haired elf began, his serious tone drawing a raised eyebrow from the assassin. "I... I came over here to talk. Not that I don't appreciate the offer," he added with a slight, self-conscious grin.

"Oh-ho, truly? The offer still stands, whenever you'd like to claim it," Zevran replied with a playful leer. "But... what did you wish to talk about?" He was still smiling, but Alessar took note of the fact that he crossed his arms, that classic sign of defensiveness.

"... I think you know already," the Warden said quietly. "What... what the Guardian asked you before the Gauntlet..." He looked up; Zevran's expression had become unreadable. "I... wondered if you would care to tell me about it."

The Antivan elf looked down for a moment, but then met Alessar's gaze and smiled wearily. "I... suppose I should. You have been a good friend to me, more than I ever dared to hope for... especially given how we met, yes?" A smile flickered on his lips briefly.

Zevran's normal veil of humor and innuendo was gone, now. Just that fact alone made the Warden aware of how important this was... and how much the assassin trusted him, to let his guard down this way. He could tell that this was going to be difficult for Zevran, and while his curiosity still raged, he had to offer a way out. He always did. "If you really don't want to discuss it, Zevran, it's all right."

"No... Of all people, my Grey Warden, you need to hear this," the assassin replied, shaking his head. He gestured for Alessar to sit down, and followed suit.

_I_ need _to hear it? That doesn't sound good,_ Alessar thought worriedly. He sat down next to the other elf and looked up attentively.

Zevran, however, was looking into the flames of their bonfire, his eyes unfocused. "Do you remember when I mentioned the last mission I took before I was contracted to kill you?" he asked.

"Yes..." The Warden tried to remember exactly what Zevran had said. "You said it was the only other tale worth telling, but..."

"But I didn't want to tell it at that time. Yes." The Antivan looked over at him and smiled slightly, apparently glad that he remembered. "What that shade asked me is a part of what happened then. But... let me start at the beginning."

Alessar just nodded slightly, willing to let Zevran tell the obviously painful story at his own pace.

"At the time, I was at the height of my career in the Crows. I was cocky, and arrogant, and I thought that I was the best Crow in Antiva. I bragged often about my accomplishments – both as an assassin, and as a lover." Zevran looked sidelong at the Warden, gauging his reaction.

"_Were_ you the best Crow in Antiva?" Alessar asked with a small smile. It was easy for him to imagine Zevran as the character he had just described. Perhaps he was no longer that way now, but it seemed that he still held up that facade, frequently, in order to protect himself...

"Oh, who can say?" the assassin said with a short laugh. "I certainly made a good deal of money for the Crows, at any rate. As I told you when we first met, they more than made back whatever they invested in buying and training me." He waved dismissively. "But regardless of my value, my... attitude... displeased some of my masters. When I put in a bid on a particularly difficult job, they accepted. Perhaps they hoped that I would fail, or perhaps they somehow had some inkling of what was to happen. If I had been less of a fool, I might have taken heed of their malice, but I never thought of such things... I just wanted to complete another challenge, add another notch to my belt, so to speak."

Alessar nodded again, though he held back his many questions. This was Zevran's tale to tell, after all.

"I was to work with two others: a frequent partner of mine, a man named Taliesen; and an elven woman named Rinna." The Antivan paused for a moment, closing his eyes as if summoning a mental image. "She was... amazing. Smooth, tough, wicked... Eyes that shined like justice. Everything I thought I desired."

"You were in love with her," the Warden said quietly, beginning to get an inkling of how this would end.

"I was. I would have never admitted it, then. I... thought I had closed myself off from such things long ago. Those feelings were a weakness; my trainers had beaten that into me over the years." Zevran shook his head regretfully. "But she... touched something within me. It frightened me."

Alessar felt a slight chill. Of course, it was no surprise at all that Zevran had been taught not to love; he'd been raised to kill since the age of seven. But the fact that love had _frightened_ him... It sounded so utterly painful. He could only imagine how conflicted Zevran must have been. The Warden himself was still trying to come to terms with his feelings for the assassin, and that was complicated, but he had _never_ thought of love as something wrong. Something mysterious, perhaps, but not something to be scourged away. How would _he_ feel if he suddenly felt powerfully drawn to someone, but believed that that feeling was bad, or that he'd be punished for it?

"Taliesen... brought me unpleasant news," Zevran pressed on. "It seemed that the merchant had learned of our plan, and Taliesen was convinced that the merchant had bribed Rinna for that information. ... The Crows do not take betrayal lightly. She would have to die for that.

"I felt that I had been made a fool of, and I convinced myself that whatever had drawn me to Rinna was a lie, that she had beguiled me somehow. I ... stood aside as Taliesen killed her."

Zevran continued to stare towards the fire as he spoke, his expression bleak. "She was on her hands and knees, begging us not to kill her. She swore that she loved me, and that she had not betrayed us. I... I laughed in her face, and told her that even if it were true, I didn't care."

"But that was a lie," Alessar said in a near-whisper, caught up in the pain in Zevran's voice.

"I had convinced myself it was true," the other elf said bitterly. "...Taliesen slit her throat, and she fell to the floor. I watched her bleed to death as she stared up at me... and I spat on her for betraying the Crows."

The Warden had known that the woman would die somewhere in this tale, but not how. He stared at Zevran, aghast – not at what Zevran had done (or not done), but that his heart had been broken in such a way. But the assassin's tale was not finished.

"When we finally assassinated the merchant, we found the true source of his information. Rinna... had not betrayed us after all."

Alessar's hand came up to his mouth in shock. "Oh... oh, Maker. Zevran..."

Zevran closed his eyes, ignoring the Warden for a moment, as if eager to just finish the tale and put it behind him again. "I wanted to tell the masters the truth, but Taliesen convinced me not to. He needn't have bothered; they knew. They always knew these things. They enjoyed telling me that they didn't care, that it didn't matter, and that my turn would come, some day."

"Why?" the Warden breathed. "Why would they..."

"We were nothing to them, Alessar." Zevran finally looked at him, and while his expression was not so deeply distressed – doubtless because of his training – the tone of his voice was heartbreaking. "She was nothing, I was nothing. We were expendable. And they wanted to remind me of that. No matter what we did... we were nothing more than tools for them to use and discard."

He finally fell silent, looking at his hands. Alessar felt a sudden, unreasoning urge to _touch_ him, to take his hand, or grip his shoulder, or... something, but he fought it, unsure of whether the other elf would accept that kind of gesture.

"When I took the job that brought me to you... it wasn't as if I was expecting to be spared by my target, and given a way to escape the Crows," the assassin said with a faint smile. "I had been looking to die. I thought, what better way to ensure my fate than to throw myself at a fabled Grey Warden? But... that apparently was not meant to be. And so, here I am."

"I... I'm so sorry, Zevran," Alessar said haltingly. "That's... truly horrible..."

"I swore I would never speak of this to anyone, but... it feels... good, to have done so," Zevran said, sounding almost surprised to realize it. "Thank you for listening... and for what you have given me, here in Ferelden," he continued solemnly. "I owe you a great deal."

"You don't owe me anything, Zevran," the Warden said, shaking his head. "I'm... glad to have you with me. With us." He tried backpedaling over his slip, but once said, it couldn't be taken back.

The Antivan gave him a hint of a grin as he heard the little stumble. "And I'm glad to be here. With you."

At that moment, Alessar lost all concern with whether or not the others might be watching, and what they might think if they were. Before he could over-think it, he leaned over and kissed the other elf lightly on the cheek. "Thank you for telling me all of this," he said softly before pulling away. He could only imagine how much it must have hurt to dredge all of that up again. It had hurt _him_ just to listen to it.

Zevran looked slightly bemused at Alessar's spontaneous display, and was silent as the Warden rose and turned to leave. He had only taken half a step, though, before a hand seized his wrist, and he was pulled around into a rough, almost desperate kiss. He fought down the instinctive urge to recoil from the other man – the fear clearly still wasn't completely gone – and forced himself to relax instead, to surrender. He could feel the smile on Zevran's lips, the soft laugh shared between their breath.

Finally, they parted, breathless. Someone farther away coughed self-consciously, but Alessar didn't really care at the moment. All of his attention was for Zevran, who was regarding him with that familiar glint in his eye once again.

"Did you really think I'd let you get away with just that little peck, my dear Grey Warden?" the assassin murmured, his smug smirk threatening to break into a wider grin.

* * *

Author's Note:

Whew... glad this one is over with. I didn't think it would, but it did hurt a little to write. :( Ahh, getting caught up in the text, gotta love it when that happens... :3

Thanks very much to everyone who's been reading and reviewing so far! :) I really appreciate it, and (being new to ) I do wish there was a way to respond directly to reviews! I suppose that's not what the site functionality is for, though... But anyway, thank you! :3

Dragon Age: Origins and all characters here besides Alessar belong to Bioware and their wonderful writers.


	7. Unguarded Moments

**Knot 7: Unguarded Moments  
**

Alessar kept tugging at the hem of his tunic. It was strange not to be wearing at least part of his armor, and stranger still to be wearing such fine clothes. Not that these were overly ornate or formal, but they were better than pretty much anything he'd ever owned, aside from his ill-fated wedding clothes.

The grey and blue tunic and trousers had been provided by Arl Eamon ("Not even gifts, Grey Warden, just a simple courtesy," the arl had said with a tired smile as he had the Wardens' party presented with clean clothes suited to their status), and were slightly too large – unsurprising, considering his elven stature, after all. But it was a kind gesture, and it certainly wouldn't hurt to have presentable clothing in the future, especially if they were going to be muddling in politics in Denerim...

There was a quiet knock at the door. That was another odd thing – having a door, let alone an entire room. But when they had returned from Haven, and the Ashes had restored Arl Eamon to health, the arl had insisted that they stay the night in the castle for a proper (and safe) night's rest before leaving in the morning. No one in the party had voiced any objection, not even Sten, so here they were, ensconced on the second floor like visiting dignitaries. _Well... I suppose it's arguable that we_ are _just that,_ Alessar thought as he went to open the door.

A young elven woman in the drab dress of a chambermaid stood there, holding what appeared to be a down-filled duvet. She smiled warmly – and perhaps a bit more than warmly – at the Grey Warden. "I've brought this for you, ser," she explained as she hefted the blanket, "since it does get rather... chilly... on this wing, at night."

_Oh, no. Not again!_ He'd been pursued by a human maid the last time they were in Redcliffe Castle, and had barely managed to talk his way out of her clutches. Alistair had teased him for days about his "elven mystique".

This girl was an elf herself, though, whatever difference that might make. Alessar wasn't aware that elves had come back to the castle, after the terrible things young Connor had done while under the demon's control, but it wasn't too surprising; working in a noble's castle was a prime billet for a city elf. The labor usually wasn't terrible, the servants got a fair share of food, and most importantly in this case, the Guerrins were a well-liked and respected family and known to be good people, recent events aside. It was as good a job as many elves could hope for.

"Er, thank you," the Warden said as he stepped aside to let the girl in. He quite purposely left the door open in case she got any ideas, although the hallway was unhelpfully empty at the moment...

The maid hummed a light tune as she spread the duvet out on the large bed and smoothed it out neatly. The cover, Alessar could now see, was embroidered with a border pattern of running hounds. It was very skillful work, and he felt decidedly odd about using the thing. In the Alienage, no one would dare use such a fine piece of embroidery for _sleeping on_...

"There we go," the girl said with a satisfied smile as she surveyed her work. She turned to Alessar with an unmistakably bold look. "Is there... anything else you need, ser?" she asked sweetly, moving closer to him.

She really was quite pretty, the Warden thought distractedly. Long red hair pulled back in a loose plait, emerald-green eyes, and a ready smile. But he wasn't looking for what she was offering. "Thank you, miss, but I'm fine," he said politely, hoping she'd take the hint.

He had no such luck on that front, however. "Are you _quite_ sure?" she murmured, close enough now to boldly reach out and trail her fingers down his arm.

Alessar shivered slightly and shook his head. "Truly, miss, I–" Motion on the edge of his vision caught his eye, and he broke off, startled, to glance around. The maid interpreted his pause differently, however, and looked up at him flirtatiously through the veil of her lashes.

"I'd heard you were shy... I–" She froze, terror on her face, and Alessar saw the glint of metal at her throat.

"Zevran!" he said disapprovingly as the assassin revealed himself behind the maid, a wicked grin on his face.

"I believe the Warden made himself clear," he said lightly to the girl, the amusement in his voice easy to hear – for Alessar, at least. "Kindly step away from him, hmm?"

Mutely, the maid took a faltering half-step backwards, then another. She clearly wanted to turn to face her accuser, but didn't dare with the knife blade still at her neck. Alessar could see now, however, that it was a table knife, and Zevran was only using the dull side of the blade. He was obviously enjoying himself.

"You never know where you might find an assassin," the Antivan said conversationally, glancing up at Alessar. "Speaking from experience, of course."

"I-I'm not–!" the maid objected, looking startled at the accusation. She held her hands up in innocence.

"Zevran, I'm sure she's fine." The Warden was trying hard not to grin. Obviously Zevran didn't consider her a real threat, either. "Please, you're scaring her."

"Ah, very well." The assassin withdrew the knife, and it disappeared through some sleight of hand before the maid could see she had been accosted with an eating utensil.

Before either man could say a word, the girl hastily backed towards the door. "Your pardon, sers!" she said, dropping a quick curtsey before fleeing, pulling the door shut behind her.

The two elves looked at each other for a long moment before they both burst out laughing.

"You're _terrible_," Alessar exclaimed as he caught his breath. "That poor girl!"

"I think that's the first time I've ever _defended_ someone's virtue," Zevran chuckled. "I fear the damage to my reputation."

"I won't tell anyone, don't worry," the Warden replied with a grin. "But why are you carrying a table knife?"

"Ah. It was wise of you to leave your door open," Zevran smirked. "I stepped out of my own room and heard her in here, and then, well... What can I say? Creativity took over." He gestured to a small table which held a tray of cheese and some fruit, and Alessar saw a knife there, identical to the one Zevran had wielded to such effect.

"Creativity, or a flair for the dramatic?" Alessar teased. He walked over to the table and sat down to examine the fruit: apples, pears and a peculiar round thing about the size of an apple that looked like a gigantic rose hip.

"Antivans thrive on drama," Zevran said airily, joining him at the table. "I just wanted to make sure she understood very clearly. Or... perhaps you would have preferred me to leave the two of you alone?" he asked with a raised eyebrow.

"Oh, Maker, no," Alessar protested, earning another laugh from the assassin. "Thank you for your timely assistance," he said with mock-formality.

"You are most welcome, my dear Warden," the other elf chuckled as he picked up the unfamiliar-looking fruit. "_La granada_," he said in explanation to Alessar's puzzled look. "What is it they call it here... a _pomegranate_." Expertly, he scored the skin of the fruit and split it in half, revealing the dozens of ruby-red seeds inside.

"Oh, how strange." The Warden carefully plucked one of the seeds out and looked at it curiously. "I take it you eat these, then."

"Correct," Zevran said with a chuckle, taking a seed and popping it into his mouth. "Ah, not bad. I wonder if these are grown nearby..."

Not to be shown up, Alessar tried a seed and was rewarded by a burst of sweet, berry-like flavor. "Oh! That's... hmm." It was good, but not the taste he had expected.

The assassin grinned at his expression. "Too sour for you?"

"Not really..." There _was_ an element of tartness, an astringent note, but it wasn't overwhelming. "It's just different."

"In Antiva, they make wine with these," Zevran said musingly. "Too sweet for me, but I suppose it might be good spiced and mulled in the winter..."

They spoke of Antiva as they finished off the seeds; or rather, Zevran spoke, and Alessar broke in with an occasional question. The Warden could tell that Zevran missed his home, and he could certainly sympathize; who knew when either of them would be able to return to the only worlds they had known? But there was a further, unspoken sentiment shared between the two of them: as much as they might have missed their familiar sights and sounds, neither of them much missed the lives they had come from. Servitude, oppression, death, despair... had they truly escaped those things, or did those fates await them, still?

As they were greedily fishing the last of the seeds from the pomegranate's husk, there was another knock on the door. Zevran looked up at Alessar with a speculative grin. "Ten silvers it's another chambermaid," he murmured as the Warden rose.

"After what you did to the last one?" Alessar shook his head. "It's probably Alistair..."

"Should I ask why you're expecting _him_ in your room at this hour?" the assassin asked in amusement. Alessar shot him a look before he opened the door.

It _was_ another chambermaid, a human girl, but this one kept her eyes down as she offered the Warden a bottle of wine. "A gift from the arl, ser," she said, curtseying.

"Please give him my thanks," Alessar said in surprise, accepting the bottle. He was no expert by any means, but judging by the state of the label tied to the neck of the bottle, the thing was quite old.

The girl curtseyed again, and dared to look up at him for a moment. She blushed as she met his curious look, and quickly looked down again. "Good night, ser," she squeaked before retreating into the hallway.

Alessar shook his head as he closed the door and walked back to the table. There were two plain cups there, probably meant for water, but they'd do just as well for wine.

"Hmm, I think you owe me some coin, my friend," Zevran chuckled, taking the bottle and examining it. "98 Blessed!" He whistled, impressed. "A princely gift."

"Wow..." The Warden gawked at the bottle. The wine was well older than he was! "But I don't think you won that bet. She wasn't here for... _that_..."

Zevran smirked at Alessar as he sat back down. "So you think. I saw how she looked at you... perhaps she just lost her nerve." He looked at the seal on the bottle speculatively, then glanced questioningly at the other elf. "Would you like to save this for another time, or...?"

Alessar shook his head. "When might we ever get another chance to just... relax like this?" he asked rhetorically. A night where no one had to stand watch, there was no cold wind knifing through all too flimsy tents, and there was no one to accidentally overhear what should have been private... The thought suddenly crossed his mind, and he struggled to think of something else before Zevran would notice that his ears had suddenly gone pink.

Fortunately, the Antivan was intent on unsealing the bottle at the moment. "My thoughts precisely, my dear Warden. Besides, I must admit I'm quite curious to try such an aged vintage!" His expression grew serious, and he looked up at Alessar. "...Assuming you wish to share, of course."

The Warden considered leaving the other elf hanging for a few moments, but he couldn't do it. "There's no way I'm finishing a bottle by myself," he said with a grin.

"Hmm, yes, I suppose I could consider it my duty to save you from a ghastly hangover," Zevran laughed. "All right. Let's see..." He carefully worked the stopper out with a knife, then sniffed delicately at the bottom of it. "This is a white!" he said in surprise. "A sweet white." He examined the neck of the bottle carefully, then poured a small amount into a cup and swirled it, looking at it intently. "Given the value of such a gift," he said gravely, looking up at Alessar, "I must wonder if it's safe to drink."

Alessar stared at him. "You think it could be poisoned? But... it was sealed!"

"It's not difficult to re-seal a bottle of wine," Zevran said with a slight smile. "And no, I am not suggesting that _Arl Eamon_ might be trying to kill you, but... you've already discovered two of Loghain's agents here before, yes?"

"...True." The Warden frowned. "But... what if it's just a gift?"

"Well..." Before Alessar could stop him, Zevran drank the small amount of wine he had already poured out. He seemed to contemplate the taste as the other elf stared at him. "I don't taste any poison I'm familiar with," he said finally. "But of course, some of them have no flavor. Let's wait a while, hmm?"

"Zevran!" Alessar cried in dismay. "What if it _isn't_ safe?!"

"It was only a little," the Antivan said with a shrug and a grin. "But your concern is touching, my friend." He crossed his hands behind his head and leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes. "Honestly, I expect it to be fine."

Alessar took advantage of the moment to admire the other elf, without being noticed. He cut very striking figure in a deep red tunic, ornamented at the cuffs and collar with black embroidery. He had left the collar open, giving a hint of the cleanly defined musculature of his chest, but there was no sign of the tattoos that Alessar knew the former Crow wore. They had all seen rather more of each other than most of them were comfortable with, during the Gauntlet to find the Urn of Sacred Ashes; apparently most of Zevran's tattoos were in places where they would not be visible under normal clothing or armor, which Alessar supposed was deliberate. The abstract patterns had been made up of sinuous, curving lines, much like the Dalish-style tattoos that some elves preferred. There had been a large piece suggestive of wings – perhaps a reference to the Crows themselves? – across the assassin's shoulders, and narrow ribbons of patternwork running down his spine and the sides of his hips. Alessar hadn't gotten a very clear look at the designs, at that time; he was still curious as to what exactly they signified. He didn't dare ask, though, since it would almost certainly prompt the assassin to offer him a "private viewing", or some other such euphemism...

Zevran finally opened his eyes and caught the Warden looking at him; he grinned as Alessar looked away, embarrassed. "I certainly don't mind," he said with a quiet chuckle. "It is a fine thing to be admired by someone so attractive. I think an Orlesian poet said something of the sort, once. ...Or was that a whore in Treviso? Hmm."

Feeling self-conscious and nervy, Alessar picked up the knife and slowly sawed a slice of cheese from the pale yellow wedge on the table. "How are you feeling?" he asked, glancing sidelong at the assassin.

"In the past five minutes? Quite well," Zevran laughed. "Come, let us pass the time a little more meaningfully. Do you play _ajedrez_?" He tapped the bare surface of the table, where it wasn't covered by the tray of food; only then did Alessar realize that a chessboard was inlaid into the tabletop. The Antivan, apparently used to this sort of contrivance, had already found the drawer containing the game pieces.

"Chess, do you mean? Or is this a different game?" the Warden asked as he moved the tray and the questionable bottle of wine.

"Hmm, yes, 'chess', as they call it here."

"I know the rules, I suppose... Little more than that." Chess was considered a game for nobles, not the likes of elves in an alienage; he had learned to play with rough little wooden figures, not carved stone pieces like these.

Zevran held up the two queens. "I will cede white to you, then, my Grey Warden." He placed the queens in their positions and began laying out the board. "Do you wish to make any wagers?" he asked with a roguish grin.

"When you're sure to win?" Alessar laughed. "That doesn't seem like a good idea..."

"Oh, I never said I was _good_ at this game," the other elf said slyly. "For all you know, I could be quite terrible. And for all _I_ know, you could be hiding behind modesty. But, as you wish..."

Even with the advantage of the first move, Alessar still was clearly at Zevran's mercy as they played. He realized after a while, though, that the assassin was subtly giving him openings to capture several of the black pieces. It wasn't enough to give him a true edge in the game, but he figured that Zevran was actually trying to teach him, and he began to pay more attention.

Finally, though, the Antivan pinned down Alessar's king with two queens – the elder and a promoted pawn. The Warden sighed theatrically as he laid the king down in defeat.

"A game well-played," Zevran said with a grin, "even if the result was inevitable." He chuckled suddenly, as if thinking of something else. "And, wonder of wonders, I am still alive! Let's see about this wine, hmm?"

* * *

Author's Note:

Unlike most of the other Knots, this one rolls almost directly into the next. :3

Like usual when I have an "idle" scene, this ended up significantly longer than I planned – long enough to need to be broken into two parts. Blame the pomegranate, and those freakin' chessboards _everywhere_ in Dragon Age! ;)

Dragon Age: Origins and Zevran belong to Bioware and their wonderful writers.


	8. An Unwitting Misstep

**Knot 8: An Unwitting Misstep  
**

Alessar stood at the window, his hands braced against the sill as he looked up at the thin silver sickle of the moon. It looked sharp enough to cut the velvet of the night sky, he thought, then sniggered a little at his own overly dramatic metaphor.

"What is so amusing?" Zevran joined him by the window, setting his wooden cup down on the sill. The two elves had gone through most of the gifted bottle of wine while Zevran regaled the Warden with humorous anecdotes from his previous line of work. Of course, the wine made most everything funny, but the assassin had a self-mocking mode of storytelling that was quite engaging. Eventually, though, Alessar had wanted a moment to clear his head, and had opened the shutters to the cold night air.

The head-clearing effect was somewhat dampened by Zevran's proximity, however. The other elf's hand rested companionably on Alessar's shoulder as he tried to follow the Warden's gaze; there was no other physical contact, but the Antivan was so very close that the space between them seemed tangible to Alessar. It would be such a simple thing to shift slightly, or turn and...

The Warden shook his head, trying to stay focused. "Well, nothing, really... I just had a stupid thought while I was looking at the moon."

"Oh? Won't you share?" Zevran said with a grin. Now his hand drifted down to the middle of Alessar's back, and he eased a little closer.

"It... really wasn't worth sharing, or even remembering," the dark-haired elf said sheepishly, finally turning to look at his companion.

The assassin was still contemplating the moon. "Sometimes they call this 'the moon of secrets', in Antiva," he said, smiling reminiscently. "That thin little smile, like a woman who knows something amusing."

"Mm..." Alessar simply made a sound of agreement; his sickle metaphor seemed rather out of place at the moment. He liked Zevran's better, anyway.

"What secrets is she smiling at tonight, I wonder?" Zevran met the Warden's eyes, seeking an answer to his unspoken question.

Alessar couldn't withstand that bright amber gaze for long; he looked down, but did not move away. He had known this would come. It had almost been a foregone conclusion once Zevran had entered the room – or perhaps even before that, when it had been decided that they would stay the night here. His last excuse to the Antivan had been a lack of privacy, after all, and now they had it.

More importantly, though, he seemed to have finally shed that instinctive fear of Zevran's presence. They had spent a good deal of time together on the way back from Haven, and just as the assassin predicted, familiarity had soothed his uneasiness.

...On that front, at least. There were still other things he was apprehensive about, but those... seemed to fade, at moments like this. And the wine almost certainly helped. He swallowed against a sudden flicker of nervousness and looked up at Zevran again. "Shall... shall we give her a secret to keep?" he said gamely, hoping the other elf wouldn't laugh at his clumsiness.

But Zevran smiled, looking mildly surprised, but pleased. Probably, he hadn't expected Alessar to respond so openly. "Mm, I do like the sound of that," he said with a soft laugh. "A secret shared only with the moon... very poetic indeed." He gently drew the Warden away from the window, and into a lingering, wine-tinged kiss.

"Zevran..." Alessar said hesitantly as they parted for a moment.

"Hmmm?" The assassin's response was more felt then heard, as he pressed his lips against the artery in Alessar's neck, as if to taste his heartbeat.

"I've... I've never..." It seemed important to say this, before it actually happened.

"I know," Zevran murmured, chuckling quietly before nuzzling the Warden's ear. "I will be mindful of it, my dear Warden."

"Not... Not just with a man," Alessar clarified, feeling extremely young and callow at that moment, "with... anyone."

The assassin reached up and caressed Alessar's cheek, tracing the tattooed curves lightly with his thumb. He looked intently into the other man's eyes. "I know," he repeated with a small, reassuring smile. "And that you would let _me_ have this moment... is a great honor," he continued softly. "I promise you this, _cielo_: I will give you a night to remember."

The quiet intensity of Zevran's vow made the Warden dizzy for a moment. _Maker's breath... This is finally happening..._ He closed his eyes for a long moment; opened them. The other elf was still watching him, waiting for a reply.

Alessar had no pretty words or clever turns of phrase, and he had no wish to say something that would spoil the moment. He simply replied with another kiss, earning a sound of amused contentment from Zevran as they began, by unspoken agreement, to move towards the bed.

Quite some time later, they lay together, quiet but wakeful. The rich duvet had been pushed aside long before (Alessar had insisted, much to Zevran's amusement), and the cool air from the window was finally bringing a chill to bare skin that had been feverishly warm earlier. Alessar considered getting up to close the shutters and stir the coals in the iron brazier on the floor, but he was reluctant to leave the comfort of the bed and Zevran's arms.

He looked at the assassin, who was regarding him with a playful glint in his eye. "I suppose I should have warned you when you spared my life, _cielo_," he murmured. "This, too, was inevitable."

Alessar snorted in amusement, but the comment troubled him as he thought about it further; did Zevran simply mean the physical act (..._acts_, he amended himself), and nothing more? That seemed to... trivialize the other things that had passed between them before now. Perhaps he was reading too much into one of the Antivan's overconfident statements, but...

"And now that the inevitable has happened...?" he asked quietly, his expression serious.

Zevran heard the gravity in his voice, and shifted slightly so that he could fully meet Alessar's eyes. "What comes next, my dear Warden, is entirely up to you."

The Warden raised an eyebrow. "Just me? What about you?"

"I... have lived my life taking these pleasures where they could be found, _cielo_, because they are few and far between." The Antivan's smile was slightly sad, world-weary. "And so... I shall ask nothing more of you than you are willing to give."

To Alessar, this sounded somewhat like a retreat, or an escape being offered. But _he_ had no interest in backing away, or in keeping a distance between them. Did Zevran? With the assassin placing the burden of this... decision, if it could be called that, on him, it was hard to tell what the other elf actually wanted – which was, the Warden thought, probably deliberate. But hardly fair.

He knew what _he_ was willing to give, and what he sought in return. But whether Zevran felt the same way at all was... difficult to tell at this point. Still... he had to ask now, to know if he should curb his expectations, or if, perhaps, something more might come of this.

"And what of love, Zevran?" he asked softly.

He regretted it almost immediately as he felt the other man's sudden tension. "I was born of a whore, and bred as an assassin," Zevran said quietly, a note of harshness in his voice. He pulled away from Alessar and turned to look towards the window. "All I know is of pleasure and death. What room is there in these things for love?"

_I should have known better,_ Alessar thought regretfully, _after his tale about Rinna..._ He had used that deadly word without fully considering what associations it carried for the Antivan, and now he might have turned him away completely. But he hadn't wanted to lie or shortchange the way he felt. _I owe that honesty,_ he thought, _to Zevran, and to myself._

"I'm... sorry," he said hesitantly, sitting up. "I... shouldn't have..."

"You needn't apologize to _me_," Zevran interrupted, also rising. He turned and smiled at Alessar over his shoulder, but the expression was too quick, too practiced, for the Warden to take any comfort in it.

Much to Alessar's dismay, the assassin slipped out of bed and began to retrieve his clothing. "You're... leaving?" Had he just ruined not only the evening, but the future, as well?

"Surely you don't wish to explain my presence in your room to everyone tomorrow morning?" the other elf said with a little laugh.

"I... It really doesn't bother me," Alessar said quietly, trying to keep the pleading note out of his voice. If Zevran truly wanted to leave, he wasn't going to guilt him into staying, but if he was only leaving because he thought that was what the Warden wanted...

"No..." Zevran mused, pausing as he fastened his tunic to look up at the dark-haired elf, "it really doesn't, does it?"

That the two of them were attracted to each other was no secret to anyone in their company, not anymore. What Alessar disliked was being teased, but that had mostly died down by this point. Even Wynne had left off with her well-meaning, but grating, harangues on the duties of a Grey Warden. This new element to their relationship might sprout a few days of ribbing and snarky comments, but as far as anyone's approval or disapproval... they were well past all of that.

"It doesn't," the Warden echoed, looking down. "You don't need to leave on my account, but..."

The room was silent for several moments, except for the quiet sounds of cloth rustling and fasteners being closed. Alessar didn't dare look up, afraid he would say something else he'd regret.

Footsteps turned towards the bed, and a hand reached out to gently cup his chin, forcing him to look up. Zevran looked at him searchingly for a long moment, and it seemed that he wanted to say something, but, uncharacteristically, couldn't find the words. Finally, he simply kissed the Warden briefly. "Until the morning, _cielo_," he said softly as he backed away.

That... was slightly more reassuring, but Alessar still felt as if he'd endangered something fragile with his thoughtlessness. He watched Zevran walk to the door, and finally called out in a whisper as the assassin's hand touched the doorknob. "Wait..."

The other elf turned to look at him warily, no doubt afraid that he was about to make this even more awkward, but he only had a simple question.

"What... does that mean?" the Warden asked softly. "_Cielo._"

"Ah." Zevran looked down, a slight smile on his lips. "That is heaven, the blue sky above. Like your eyes." Before Alessar could find a reply to that, the assassin slipped out of the room as quietly as he had come in.

* * *

Author's Note:

Um. Well. XD;; It had to happen eventually!

Oh, and "cielo" is a Spanish term of endearment. While searching for such things, I found it and thought it was appropriate, as pointed out at the end. ;)

Dragon Age: Origins and all characters here besides Alessar belong to Bioware and their wonderful writers.


	9. Unchecked Reactions

**Knot 9: Unchecked Reactions  
**

"_Alessar!_"

Alistair held up his shield against the hail of arrows as he looked around, trying to find his fellow Warden amidst the madness of battle. What had caused Zevran to cry out like that?

He only realized that the elven archer had fallen when he saw Wynne making her way towards his supine form, freezing the single genlock in her path with a focused burst of cold. Alistair couldn't make out her expression clearly at this distance, but she didn't look particularly worried...

Zevran, on the other hand, was fighting like a demon, recklessly chasing down genlock archers and single-handedly dispatching them with brutal slashes of his daggers. He was usually quick enough to evade their blundering counterattacks, the templar knew, but he was going to get himself hurt if he was fighting blindly.

"Zevran! Pull yourself together!" he shouted, wondering if the elf would heed him. After all these months, they fought together rather well, but it was usually Alessar calling the order of battle from a better vantage point, not Alistair.

"I'd rather tear _them_ apart!" was the furious reply, and the assassin did seem to be doing just that.

Alistair cursed as a hurlock came virtually out of nowhere and tried to bash him, shield-to-shield. The darkspawn were horribly strong, but one on one, Alistair's training and superior equipment still gave him the advantage. He gave the hurlock a forceful shove to give himself some space, then brought his sword into play, running the creature through.

He had to kick the still-twitching corpse off of his blade as two genlocks rushed him; one of them was immediately, and literally, frozen in place as Wynne attacked from afar. Alistair quickly battered the other one with his shield, stunning the malevolent thing before he dispatched it with a swipe of his sword. The frozen one met a similar fate as the templar cut it down before Wynne's spell wore off.

As he caught his breath, he realized that the grassy field had finally attained that unnatural stillness that always heralded the end of a battle, and a quick look around confirmed that the darkspawn were all down. The distinctive striped fletching of one of Alessar's arrows caught his eye; he saw that the archer had managed to kill a hurlock Emissary with an arrow through the eye. It was a spectacular shot, but apparently the Warden had paid for it...

Zevran was already kneeling next to Wynne; between them, they had propped Alessar up somewhat. As the templar hurried over, he finally saw what had happened. "Maker's Mercy!" he swore quietly.

Alessar had an arrow through his neck; the arrowhead had gone in from the left front side, diagonally, and was at least an inch clear on the other side. It seemed fortunate that the arrow hadn't struck bone. The elf was still conscious, his pupils dilated with pain and shock, and he seemed to be struggling to breathe steadily, though whether that was from his airway being blocked or simply from pain, Alistair couldn't tell.

Zevran had given Alessar his hand, letting the injured Warden grip it tightly as a release for some of his agony. The assassin was speaking softly to his lover, a stream of words barely above a whisper. Alistair couldn't make out any of it, but then, it wasn't meant for his ears, anyway. Something had passed between the elves a couple of weeks ago in Redcliffe – none of the others knew exactly what, but they had seemed rather awkward around each other since. Alistair wondered if it had been an argument, but the two rogues didn't seem exactly _alienated_ from each other; they had just lost the sense of easy banter that marked most of Zevran's exchanges with the rest of the party. Whatever had happened, though, it seemed that any distance between them was forgotten at this moment.

"What... what do we do?" the templar asked Wynne, tearing his eyes away from his friend's distress. The mage, in contrast, appeared relatively unruffled. Maybe she'd taken care of this sort of thing a dozen times. He would have liked to think so, anyway.

"We need to remove the arrow, obviously," Wynne said calmly, looking at the offending arrow carefully, but not touching it. "Now that we're all here... one of you needs to help Alessar keep still while the other handles this. I'm going to be minding the wound while we work." She looked from Zevran to Alistair. "Which of you has the steadiest hands? Now is not the time for modesty."

The two men looked at each other; between a warrior and an assassin, it really wasn't much of a question. "That would most likely be me," Zevran said with a nod. "Do you wish me to remove the head from the arrow, then?"

The Antivan elf was, Alistair noted, all business now; no jokes or off-color comments, just cool professionalism. The way he had tucked away his personal concern was a little startling – until Alistair saw the sweat beaded on his forehead. _Ah, damn, he_ is _still worried. That instant calm must be some kind of... assassin thing. Well, if it helps..._

"Yes, Zevran, as quickly and cleanly as possible," Wynne was explaining. "You don't want to jostle or damage the arrow too much, clearly."

"Of course." The assassin murmured another word or two to Alessar and examined the arrowhead and shaft minutely, his bright eyes flicking to and fro as he considered his plan of action. After a moment, he gently extricated his hand from the other elf's anguished grip and beckoned for Alistair to come closer.

"What do you need?" the templar said quickly, kneeling down. How long could Alessar stand this? Surely he wouldn't die, not with Wynne right here, but...

"Can you please help him sit up?" The two of them carefully maneuvered the Warden into a sitting position, Alistair holding him steady. Alessar grimaced terribly through this whole process, but made no sound other than a strangled grunt or two. Alistair wondered worriedly if his voicebox had been damaged.

Now that Alessar was upright, Zevran reached into the heavy leather pouch the archer kept on his belt and pulled out a pair of cutters that Alistair recognized as the ones Alessar used for cutting wire and the like when making traps. They were surely sharp enough to cut wood, but could they close over something the size of an arrow shaft?

Zevran must have seen the doubt on his face, because he smiled faintly and began to explain. "I _think_ I can make this in one cut," he said gravely, "perhaps two at most. It will be faster than any knife."

Alistair nodded, trusting that the Antivan knew what he was talking about. "All right, I've got him, just do it."

"I'm sorry, _cielo mio_," the assassin murmured quietly as he braced the arrow shaft and lined up the cutters right behind the iron arrowhead. He took a steadying breath and squeezed the handles shut.

The arrow shaft snapped with a muffled _crack_, the arrowhead falling to the ground. It seemed that all of them breathed a sigh of relief at that, even Alessar, although that might have been a shudder of pain – the templar wasn't quite sure.

"All right," Zevran said, a slight quaver in his voice belying his calm exterior, "now the arrow itself?"

"Yes," Wynne agreed, the familiar blue glow of a healing spell surrounding her hands. "Whenever you're ready."

The assassin looked up at Alistair meaningfully, and the templar realized that this next part was probably going to hurt like damnation for his fellow Warden. Wynne's spell would help – but not until after the arrow itself was out. "Sorry about this, my friend," he said lowly, taking a tight hold on the archer's shoulders and holding him steady. Alessar gave a sort of exasperated snort in reply, or at least, that was what it sounded like.

"On my count, _cielo._" Zevran tipped Alessar's chin up with one hand and grasped the arrow shaft firmly with the other, as close to the other elf's neck as he could to minimize any inadvertent jarring as he removed the thing. "One, tw–"

Before finishing his count, he pulled the shaft out in a single smooth motion, his eyes locked on the wound. There was an alarming spurt of blood before Wynne released her healing spell, almost before the elven Warden had time to convulse in pain. Alistair felt him twitch violently and then immediately go limp.

"Wha – hey! Is he–?" the templar looked down at his friend's face; the dark-haired elf seemed to have blacked out.

Zevran looked alarmed, but Wynne patted his arm reassuringly. "He'll be fine; that happens sometimes when a healing spell collides with a lot of pain. Give him a moment."

Sure enough, after a few seconds Alessar's eyes snapped open, and he leaned over to cough and spit out several clots of blood. Zevran moved to help him, but the archer suddenly reached out and grabbed a lock of the assassin's blonde hair. Alistair could tell it was more startling for Zevran than painful, but it was still one of the more mean-spirited things he'd ever seen usually mild-mannered Alessar do.

"If you _ever_ try to trick me like that again," the elven Warden said, his voice very hoarse, "I'm going to shave your head with one of your own daggers, you bloody _bastard_."

They all stared at him for a long, silent moment, shocked, until Zevran laughed openly. "If you can curse at me, my dear Warden, you're going to be fine, I can see." He gently pried Alessar's hand away. "Come now, you know it would have hurt worse if you'd been expecting it."

Alessar continued to glare at him, but there was no real anger in his eyes. Alistair got the impression that he was more embarrassed at the attention his injury had garnered than annoyed. Still, the templar thought that just _maybe_ this incident might fix whatever had been wrong between the two elves, and letting it all go sour over something so petty seemed like a poor ending. It was time for a distraction.

"Huh. Good to know you actually _can_ curse," Alistair mused. "I was starting to wonder." He rose to his feet and pulled his fellow Warden up with him.

"Make me that angry again," the archer growled, irritatedly shaking off Alistair's helping hands, "and you'll be reminded soon enough."

That declaration drew another laugh from Zevran, and as Alessar turned on him, the assassin neatly caught both of his wrists and grinned in his infuriating way. "Now, now, I don't think dear Wynne would appreciate the undoing of her spellwork by all of this incidental violence, hmm? Although if you're of a mind, I'm sure we can think of a more... creative outlet for your frustrations..."

Alistair coughed and looked away from the elves, sharing an amused look of disgust with Wynne as the group started to make their way back to camp. Zevran really _was_ incorrigible, but for whatever reason, Alessar liked him anyway. It had been a while, too, since Zevran had teased the Warden this way, so maybe this was a good sign. Alistair wasn't sure he'd ever really understand what was at work, there (not that he really wanted to think about it too hard), but if they were happy that way, well... to each their own.

At the moment, though, he was more concerned about getting out of earshot quickly, before Zevran's suggestions started getting more hair-raisingly specific...

* * *

Author's Note:

Hmm, this was really meant to be a shorter piece between knots, but it kinda grew. Oops. XD; I don't seem to be much able to constrain something to less than 1900 words... :|

Dragon Age: Origins and all characters here besides Alessar belong to Bioware and their wonderful writers.


	10. An Unburied Regret

**Knot 10: An Unburied Regret  
**

Zevran sat near the fire, as was his habit after supper. Frequently, this time was spent mending his gear or sharpening his blades, sometimes accompanied by a bit of chat, sometimes not. Tonight was one of the rare occasions that he had little to work on while the others went about their business, and he found himself examining the pair of Dalish gloves that Alessar had given to him.

The assassin hadn't understood at first; he was perfectly happy with the light, well-worn leather gloves he already had, and it took time to get a new pair of gloves properly broken in. Given the constant threat of werewolf attacks since they'd entered the forest proper, the story about his mother's gloves that he had told the Grey Warden in the Dalish camp had been last thing on his mind in the past couple of days. It was just another of those personal bits of trivia that he seemed to let slip with unsettling regularity around Alessar – he never _meant_ to say so much, but the other elf was always so willing to listen... and listen, he clearly did.

It was not a new thing for Zevran to have his words scrutinized; he was quite used to that, in the subtle games of the Crows. The assassins constantly sought ways to undermine their fellows – their competitors – from defamation and slander to blackmail, and every shady variation in between. While the Crows might have presented a united front to outsiders, their internal workings were full of these obscure struggles for prominence and status. To keep one's thoughts and secrets safe, a successful Crow quickly learned how to speak at length and say nothing. Nowadays, when Zevran actually said something true and ungarnished, it was difficult for his audience to tell the difference, which was how he preferred it.

But Alessar presented a problem in that regard. The Warden seemed damnably determined to push through Zevran's defenses. Not to take him apart, certainly; the man seemed so harmless, and honestly _good_, that it was hard to imagine him trying to get past Zevran's guard just to betray him or cast him down. The assassin tried to keep that in mind, but sometimes the instincts he'd had to build up over the years were just too much to overcome. Why would anyone want to get at the truth, besides to use it against him?

The Antivan had already admitted the truth – all of it – behind his botched assassination attempt to Alessar. He still wasn't sure what had compelled him to speak of it, other than the Warden's gentle persistence, but it had been, as the saying went, as if a weight had been lifted from him. Perhaps that kind of truth was simply too heavy to bear on one's own. He had to wonder if, just maybe, that had been part of the point of the Guardian of the Ashes's questioning. They had, after all, heard each other's regrets and fears, which must have provoked some questions in their minds. Alessar had come to him to ask about Rinna; had he done the same for the others? For that matter, had anyone done that for him? All Zevran knew about "Shianni" was that she was a cousin of Alessar's with a fiery personality. He'd never asked his lover about the Guardian's question, because his own had been so painful, but perhaps... he should.

The idea of sharing a burden of pain was a strange one to him. The Crows did no such thing, certainly; one carried the weight of their own regrets, if they had any, entirely alone. Admitting such feelings would, again, leave one open to emotional back-stabbings, if not physical ones. And to ask someone if they wished to discuss their feelings? Laughable. Anyone offering that sort of consolation would be seen as either an inept manipulator, or a sentimental fool. Neither was the type to last long in the House of Crows.

But, as he had said several times to his new companions and to himself, he was no longer among the Crows. He had been trying, consciously, to change his way of thinking over the past months, and perhaps this was yet another opportunity to do that.

He ran his fingertips absently over the gloves' embroidery, the patterns already becoming familiar, as he glanced around the camp for Alessar. It took him a moment to spot the Warden, perhaps because he was sitting and doing something he seldom did – making poultices. They'd acquired so much elfroot from the Dalish, however, that both Wynne and Alessar would probably be kept busy for the next several nights preparing the stuff, in order to use the herbs before they lost their potency.

The other elf was alone at the moment, which was promising. Zevran rose from his seat and stretched (winking at Alistair when the motion drew his attention, much to the warrior's dismay) before tucking the gloves under his belt and making his way over to where Alessar was grinding elfroot into paste. He was tempted to try to sneak up on the man and give him a good scare, but considering the gravity of the conversation he hoped to start, it didn't seem appropriate. Instead, he let his footfalls be heard, and was rewarded with a smile as Alessar turned to see him.

"Zevran," the Warden said warmly in greeting. His flat Fereldan accent gave the name a distinctive lilt that Zevran had grown to appreciate, in day-to-day conversation or other, more... exciting... circumstances. "Come to lend a hand, or just laugh at the fact that my hands are green?"

Indeed, Alessar's pale hands were stained an herbal yellowy-green from the elfroot, and Zevran knew from previous experience that it would take a while for the color to wear off. Still, he had to laugh because the Warden was so droll about it. "Neither, I'm afraid," he replied as he sat down next to the other elf. Contrary to his words, he picked up a bundle of roots and began to break them into smaller pieces. It was helpful to Alessar, but it also gave him something to do with his hands, which very suddenly demanded to be occupied. _Am I_ nervous? _Truly?_ "Actually, I... had a question for you, of sorts."

"'Of sorts'?" The dark-haired elf looked up at him curiously, and... was there a hint of worry in his eyes?

Zevran felt a slight pang. Why had Alessar gone and made this _complicated_? _But I should have known better,_ the assassin chided himself. _He's a good boy, and good boys place far too much value on "love"._ Neither of them had raised the subject again since that night in Redcliffe, but they'd come back together under an awkward, unspoken truce, because avoiding each other was nearly impossible, and... Well, on Zevran's part, if he wanted to be honest with himself, he enjoyed Alessar's company far more than he ever hoped or expected to. So much so that it scared him a little, which was why they were in this uncomfortable situation in the first place...

"Well, it's more of an invitation to discussion, if you like," he said out loud, watching as the other elf relaxed slightly. "Although, if it's a topic you'd rather not discuss, I can certainly understand."

"Hmm, I can't imagine what you might want to talk about that, er... requires this kind of care," the Warden said with a nervous laugh. "What's on your mind?"

"I... was thinking of the Gauntlet, when we went to find the Urn of Sacred Ashes," Zevran said cautiously. "And the questions that were asked there."

Alessar's eyes widened slightly in surprise. "The questions the Guardian asked, you mean...?"

"Yes. Or, most specifically... the question he asked you, about your cousin." Seeing the look of confusion on the Warden's face, Zevran clarified, "I... simply wondered if... you might wish to talk about it? It seems to be something that troubles you, and... well, I get the impression that you listen to many of _our_ troubles without sharing your own."

The other elf looked at him for a long moment with those clear blue eyes, perhaps trying to determine if Zevran _really_ wanted to hear the story. "I... I don't know, I suppose I've never really discussed it with anyone," he finally replied with a sad smile. "After all this time, it just seems like this... thing... I've been carrying around, and I..." he faltered. "I don't even know if she's still alive, Zevran, her or anyone else in the Alienage..."

Zevran remembered Alessar's distress when they had learned of the purging of the Denerim Alienage. He had seemed more acutely worried than Zevran would have expected, almost afraid to have been seen there – which made the assassin wonder if the Warden had done something, or knew of something, that would have incurred the human authorities' wrath. Perhaps that was part of this tale...?

"We'll try to find out," the Antivan said quietly. "When we next go to Denerim. There must be a way to get news in and out of those walls, _cielo_."

Alessar nodded uncertainly. "I... suppose there must be, you're right." He seemed far from convinced, but he tried to smile anyway. "Thank you, Zevran. We'll have to do just that."

There was a minute of silence, punctuated by the quiet repetitive sounds of Alessar's wooden mortar and pestle. Zevran began to wonder if he'd missed the other elf's indication that the topic was, in fact, not up for discussion, but the Warden finally sighed softly and began to speak.

"The... day I was conscripted into the Grey Wardens... a lot of things happened," Alessar began. "That morning, the son of the Arl of Denerim, Bann Vaughan, came into the Alienage with a couple of his cronies. They... harassed some of the women, until Shianni..." The Warden smiled slightly and shook his head. "Andraste protect her, Shianni hit Vaughan over the head with a jug – knocked him right out. His friends had to carry him home."

Zevran whistled, impressed. "A dangerous, but admirable, thing to do," he murmured, starting to see the outlines of the trouble the Warden-to-be may have gotten into.

"Mm. I suppose we hoped that the... shame of it – in his eyes – would keep Vaughan quiet and away from the Alienage, but..."

"Let me guess, he came back for revenge?" the assassin supplied. Human nobles were so predictable.

"Yes," Alessar confirmed with a sigh. "He and his friends... took... several women. Including Shianni, and..." He was about to say more, then appeared to shy away from something.

Zevran wondered what the other elf was hiding. This tale seemed unfortunate enough as it was; what sort of fact would Alessar see fit to leave out? Could he have had something to do with the women's abduction, somehow? Zevran couldn't imagine how, but clearly _something_ was missing in the telling. The Warden was a very poor liar when he was emotional, and it was obvious he was holding something back. But perhaps it would come out later. For now, Zevran simply nodded, watching Alessar intently.

"My cousin – Soris, not Shianni – my cousin and I wanted to do something, but when I tried to stop them, Vaughan..." The dark-haired elf winced in remembered pain. "He knocked _me_ out. By the time I woke up, they were gone."

There was another long pause as Alessar seemed to gather his thoughts, or retrace old memories. He continued to pound the elfroot into paste, his hands seemingly working on their own, though Zevran noticed that their pace had increased, as if in subconscious agitation.

"The Alienage was in an uproar," the Warden finally continued, "as I'm sure you can imagine. But what could we do against the Arl's son? Still... it was too much to bear. Soris and I decided to try to rescue the women, with our _hahren's_ blessing. There was another fellow in the Alienage who worked in the Arl's palace; he thought he could help us sneak in..."

"Disguised as servants, I imagine?" Zevran asked.

"Of course," Alessar agreed with a snort. "Although that really didn't last very long. We had to fight almost as soon as we entered the compound, and being spattered with blood is a poor disguise."

The assassin smiled thinly. "True enough. Did they realize they were under attack?"

"Not soon enough to make a difference," was Alessar's grim reply. "We struggled past the guards, and I think our anger and our pride was our armor. I... knew something of combat, thanks to my mother; Soris, not so much. But we made it through somehow, anyway."

Zevran nodded, remembering that the Warden had learned the foundation of his rogue skills from his long-dead mother. He tried to imagine what it would be like to wade through a guarded palace at a time when he barely grasped the fundamentals of proper bladework. It seemed daunting, especially as an all-out assault and not a more stealthy infiltration. Perhaps, as the other man said, anger could be enough of a shield. "You say you got through... You rescued the women?"

Alessar bit his lip, an uncharacteristically vulnerable expression for him. "We..." he faltered. "We were too late, for one of them. Some of the guards... killed her, for fighting back."

"Of course," Zevran muttered. "How outrageous of her to object to whatever a nobleman wants." He saw the Warden shudder slightly and regretted his blunt comment. "I... apologize, _cielo_, that was ill-spoken."

"No... you're right. I doubt they'd have treated a _human_ servant that way," Alessar said darkly. "We killed those guards, although... I almost don't remember it." He rubbed at his temples with one hand. "Before then, I felt this kind of cold anger as we fought our way in, but after seeing that... it just became this haze... and anything human in armor was an enemy."

Zevran knew quite well how dangerous that state of rage was. Not from his own experience – that sort of emotional response had been trained out of him long ago – but from fighting against others in such a condition. "I can understand why, truly," he murmured solemnly, "but you were lucky to survive. Not to impugn your sword skills, my friend," he added quickly – oh, he knew all about _that_ from experience! – "but that avenger mindset gets more people killed than it saves."

The Warden nodded, his eyes on his now thoroughly pounded elfroot paste. "Oh, I know. We _were_ lucky. Pretty much the only enemies left at that point between us and the women were Vaughan and his cronies, and..." he shut his eyes tightly for a long moment.

This was obviously getting to the painful part, perhaps whatever it was that had happened to Shianni that the Guardian had asked about. Feeling a little awkward, Zevran put his hand on Alessar's shoulder in what he hoped was a comforting gesture, and gave him a little squeeze. It wasn't the sort of thing he was familiar with, not at all, but he simply felt like he needed to do _something_.

Alessar looked up at him with a small, grateful smile. "Thank you," he said softly before continuing his story. "We... found Vaughan and his companions... and... Shianni." His gaze returned to the wooden mortar. "They... they had... hurt her..."

The dark-haired elf's tension was clear; it was easy to guess what he really meant by "hurt". It wasn't hard to imagine a slighted noble taking the most humiliating kind of revenge on an _elven woman_ who had dared to strike him. Zevran leaned a little closer to his lover, trying to offer a sense of support. It was... difficult for him to sympathize with Alessar's pain, although he was trying. He had seen things like this happen around him his entire life, and had become inured to it, but he knew Alessar had _not_, and besides that, Shianni was family to him. Maybe that made it feel much worse. He wouldn't know.

"That is what the Guardian spoke of, then?" the Antivan elf asked quietly.

Alessar nodded in reply. "If... if we had come sooner... Or fought harder, or maybe tried to be more subtle..."

"_Cielo,_" Zevran said with a small smile, "I know you. I'm _positive_ you fought as hard as you could. And subtlety... is not always a quick thing. That might have taken you even longer. You did the best you could, I am certain." That was nothing but the truth. When Alessar fought with real passion, he gave it his all. The assassin had seen him ignore what should have been crippling injuries in order to save innocents, or to protect his companions. He might have preferred to talk things out rather than fight, but if it came down to combat, he was definitely a foe worthy of respect.

"It's... just hard not to wonder," the Warden sighed. "Could we have saved them all...?"

"The field of 'if' is always more fertile than the field of 'is'," Zevran quoted an old Antivan proverb. "You could spend your life wondering at all the possibilities, _cielo_, and maybe you will... that is your right. But what has happened, happened. Now it should be dealt with, and put away," he said gently.

For just a fraction of a moment, Alessar looked angry, and the assassin wondered if he'd taken offense. But the Warden shook his head. "You're probably right," he admitted. "It's just... difficult."

"And why wouldn't it be?" Zevran acknowledged. "But perhaps... this is a start?" he suggested. Speaking like this about Rinna had helped him significantly, he realized now, but did Alessar feel the same way?

From the Warden's small, but grateful smile, he seemed to, at any rate. "Perhaps... Thank you, Zevran."

The Antivan might have normally replied to that with some witty deflection, but he didn't really feel the urge to at the moment. Truth to tell, he was quite interested now in what this conversation was revealing about Alessar. "I am glad to listen," he said with a smile, meaning it. "But you speak as if this tale is over, my friend. What else happened?"

"Ah..." The Warden's gaze turned hard. "What else? We killed Vaughan and his friends like the pigs they were."

Zevran had expected that, of course, but not Alessar's way of saying it. The Warden was usually a merciful soul... but some people, and some crimes, deserved little mercy. Or, as the assassin was fond of saying, some people simply needed killing.

_But,_ killing a bann – the son of an arl! – was a sure death sentence for an elf. "Not that they didn't deserve it, but... that can't have gone over well," he murmured.

"Not at all," Alessar agreed with a bitter smile. "We hurried home with the women – the other two were fine, thank the Maker – and we'd barely explained what had happened when the palace guards showed up in the Alienage. I... took credit for it all, so that Soris wouldn't be arrested, as well, but then..." He looked up at the night sky, perhaps in thanks or in wonderment. "Then, there was Duncan, pulling out his Grey Wardens' Right of Conscription to take me away from Denerim."

"Duncan?" Zevran asked in surprise. "Well, you did say he recruited you, but why was he there?"

"Ah... I suppose I didn't mention it, did I? He had arrived earlier in the day, looking for recruits for the Wardens, but we had our own worries at the time." The Warden smiled sadly. "I suppose he got his recruit after all."

"Are you... glad?" the assassin asked curiously. Alessar's sense of duty seemed so clear-cut that the question had never occurred to him before. "To be a Grey Warden, I mean."

"There are moments when I wonder..." the other elf admitted, "but I think... perhaps it's the best thing for me. I felt too restless for the Alienage, and the things my mother taught me would have been wasted there, anyway. Now I'm doing something... important. Something larger than the Alienage, or even the city itself. It's... daunting, but... someone must do it, and there are only two of us left." He glanced up at Zevran with a small smile. "And if I can show humans, and other elves, what one of us can really do, that we deserve to be equals... well, that can't be a bad thing, I think."

_Always with these high ideals,_ Zevran thought. Well, that was undeniably part of Alessar's charm, and he certainly wasn't going to be the one to discourage him. "Perhaps things could be different for the elves in Ferelden, after the Blight is defeated," he mused.

"I can hope, I suppose," Alessar said with a shrug. There was a note of defeat in his voice, as he realized how vast a change he was talking about.

The last thing Zevran wanted was for the Warden to lose the shine of optimism that made him stand out in even the dark cloud of a Blight. It would happen eventually, certainly... but it didn't need to be right now. He gave Alessar's shoulder a little shake. "Don't let us world-weary old cynics get you down, hmm?" he said with a grin.

That won a smile from the other elf. "I don't know, having a cynic around is probably a good idea, to balance things out. Although, I don't know if I want an _old_ one..." he said with a thoughtful-looking frown, glancing sidelong at his companion.

"Oh! These unexpected cuts hurt the worst," Zevran complained. "Cynicism is like fine wine, my dear Warden, just ask Wynne."

"Hmm, maybe I should let _her_ be my appointed cynic, then?" Now Alessar was grinning openly.

The assassin made a scoffing sound, though he was pleased to have lightened the mood. It fit in much better with his plans for later in the evening... "You _could,_ I suppose," he said with mock-disdain as he leaned in closer to his lover. "But I doubt she would be able to–"

He proceeded to whisper a number of suggestions into Alessar's ear that caused said ear to gradually turn a delicate shade of pink. It was more difficult to make the Warden blush these days, which was mostly Zevran's doing in the first place, but... he was still happy to take up the challenge.

* * *

Author's Note:

Wow, how on earth did this get so long?! T_T;; Sorry. ^_^;; Yet another example how one idea in my notes (the Dalish gloves) morphed into something else entirely.

Dragon Age: Origins and all characters here besides Alessar belong to Bioware and their wonderful writers.


	11. An Unwelcome Encounter

**Knot 11: An Unwelcome Encounter  
**

Alessar was roaming around the Denerim market, passing time until his companions were to regroup, when he was distracted by a handsome display of daggers for sale. While graceful in design, the weapons were clearly meant to be functional, and their lines seemed somewhat familiar. Trying to recall why, he paused to examine the blades more closely.

"Ah, another customer. Please, feel free to browse my wares, and do let me know if I can help you with anything."

While the voice was unknown to him, the accent was not, and Alessar finally remembered where he'd seen such craftsmanship before. Zevran's original Crow dagger had been like this: elegantly simple, well-balanced, and razor sharp. He glanced up at the Antivan shopkeeper, who was eyeing him intently.

_Maybe he's afraid I'm going to try to steal one,_ the elf thought a little sourly. He had gotten plenty of disapproving, distrustful looks in markets all over Ferelden by now. No matter how well he was kitted out, shopkeepers still seemed to see him as a potential thief rather than a customer.

Still, this merchant had not tried to run him off, and had, in fact, invited him to shop. Perhaps he was this wary with all his customers. Alessar smiled politely in reply and continued his perusal. He wasn't really in the market for a new dagger at the moment, but if there was something truly worth having, or worth gifting...

As he turned from the rack of daggers to the other side of the stall, a row of bottles behind the counter caught his eye. They were not labeled with words, but with pictures or glyphs, and he recognized one of them immediately – deathroot. Near that bottle was another labeled with a spider; surely that was giant spider venom. Poison, then. An interesting shop, this one...

"I see you have an eye for more... subtle things," the merchant said appreciatively, though his voice was pitched low. Obviously, these particular supplies were not meant to draw attention. "Is there something in particular you are looking for?"

"Not at the moment, I think, thank you." Alessar shook his head. Zevran was the main poison user of their group, and he managed his own supplies, for the most part; the Warden had little idea what he might need right now. He made a mental note to tell the other elf about this stall, though, in case he _did_ need something. The merchant seemed fairly well-stocked.

And then, as if the thought had summoned him, Zevran was quite suddenly there, next to him. He had appeared so quickly that Alessar wondered if the assassin had been following him in stealth. Not that he minded, particularly – as a Grey Warden, he _was_ in danger here, and it wouldn't be the first time Zevran had appointed himself Alessar's bodyguard – but if that was the case, what had made the other elf give up his subterfuge?

Zevran looked at the merchant with the faintest hint of a scowl, which was markedly odd for the usually good-natured elf, and leaned to speak very quietly into Alessar's ear. "This man is a Crow, _cielo_, I am sure of it."

Alessar clamped down on his initial surprised reaction and simply nodded slightly in acknowledgment. Surely the man could be here for reasons that had nothing to do with them, but on the other hand... Were the Crows still after the two Wardens? Were they after Zevran himself? Or was something else going on? They needed to talk about this, immediately.

He turned to the merchant and smiled apologetically. "I'm afraid duty calls. Thank you for your time."

"Ah, of course." The man had not acknowledged Zevran's arrival, perhaps a subtle insult. "Do remember master trader Ignacio if you find yourself in need of these more... specialized supplies."

The elven Warden was standing close enough to Zevran to feel his sudden tension. What had set that off? The man's name? "I will, thank you." He nodded in farewell.

"Luck be to you, Warden," the merchant replied as Alessar turned away. The words made him pivot on his heel, his mouth going dry.

"What was that?" he asked, trying to keep his tone light.

"Ah... One hears things in passing," the merchant said with a shrug. The shrewd look in his eyes, however, belied his seeming nonchalance. "It is said there are few secrets in the market, after all. But perhaps whoever I overheard was mistaken."

"I should certainly hope so," Alessar said with a weak laugh, his thoughts racing. He shouldn't have been surprised; if the man _was_ one of the Crows, it was entirely possible that he knew exactly who Alessar was. But why had he let that slip? The Warden was sure that had been deliberate. Was it a threat? A warning? Or just a bit of bait to get – and keep – Alessar's attention?

Ignacio inclined his head in apology. "I'm sorry for the misunderstanding, then. Good day, ser."

Now well and truly concerned, Alessar let Zevran lead him several yards away from the market stall. Once they reached a quiet spot, the assassin scowled darkly as he glanced back towards the suspicious merchant.

"I've heard of him," Zevran said in an intense undertone, "_Master_ Ignacio. I don't like that he made a point of making your acquaintance, _cielo_."

Alessar resisted the urge to turn around and look again. "What does he want?" He had thought – _hoped_ – that the Crows' interest in the Grey Wardens had ended with Zevran's failure to kill him.

"I'm not sure," the assassin admitted, looking annoyed, "but I don't like it one bit. I think he may try to contact you before we leave Denerim... If he does, tread carefully."

"Contact me? What for?" the Warden asked, surprised. "That doesn't seem very useful for killing someone..."

Zevran shook his head. "If he were going to kill you – or was going to send someone to do so – I don't think he would have drawn your attention as he did. But I have no doubt he's up to something." His eyes narrowed as he glanced back towards the merchant stall. "Just watch your step, _cielo_."

Alessar silently nodded in reply. From things Zevran had told him in the past, the Crows were quite well-versed in political intrigue, and were part of the landscape of power in Antiva itself. Was Ignacio here in Denerim to manipulate the current situation? And if so... in whose favor? Obviously Loghain had already involved the Crows on his side, but Zevran had described situations where the Crows had played several sides of the same conflict...

It made his head hurt. As much value as he placed in diplomacy over violence, this kind of large-scale maneuvering, with people's lives as pawns in the game, made him long for the cleanly drawn lines of the battle against the darkspawn. There was no question there about who the real enemies were. And wasn't that what Ferelden as a whole should have been worried about, anyway?

"What about you?" Alessar asked, going back to his earlier concern. "Would this Ignacio tell the Crows that you're still alive?" He looked at the other elf worriedly.

"Hmm. I'm not entirely sure," Zevran said, shaking his head. "Perhaps it depends on what he has to gain by doing so. If he wishes something of _you_, making you angry – or getting you attacked by my former comrades – seems a poor idea, no?"

"True..." Now that the thought was in his head, though, it was hard for Alessar not to fret over it. Zevran had been adamant from the beginning that if the Crows found out he was alive and had failed (let alone joined forces with his target!), he'd be killed. Was that an exaggeration, did Zevran really think Ignacio wouldn't report his status, or had the situation changed so utterly as to make that irrelevant?

A very small part of Alessar's mind wondered if this might be a prelude to a betrayal by Zevran. Reestablishing contact with the Crows, with one of the Grey Wardens utterly at his mercy? Might this chance encounter remind him of, or scare him into, his proper duty? But... for one thing, as the assassin had admitted before, if he had wanted to kill any or all of them, he could have easily done so long ago. Why wait until now?

For another... Well. The Warden liked and trusted Zevran far too much to believe him capable of such treachery. Maybe that was foolish, but he couldn't really stop himself, not at this point. He _wanted_ to trust, wanted to care, and the other man's surprised gratitude for that care made it hard to believe he'd merely been dissembling the whole time. Again, what purpose would it serve? Unless he relished the utter cruelty of a crushing betrayal...

But Zevran had always vouched for clean kills, and suddenly turning on one's lover of months seemed anything but "clean".

He realized that the other elf was looking at him curiously, and he smiled slightly and shook his head. "Sorry. I hope this isn't going to become a problem," he murmured as they headed towards Wade's Emporium.

"We'll see, won't we?" the assassin said with a cavalier shrug. "If it does, I'm sure it's nothing we can't handle," he added, grinning roguishly.

Alessar snorted in reply. "I hope you're right." _And I hope _I'm_ right,_ he thought. It was entirely too painful to think otherwise.

Their group spent the rest of the morning and part of the afternoon running the errands they invariably had whenever they came to a large town; buying supplies, turning in bounties for various guilds, and checking the chanter's board for any easy work. Zevran and Alessar spent the better part of two hours trying to get information out of the Alienage; apparently there was illness there now, brought by refugees from the south, but as far as Alessar could determine, his father and his cousins still lived.

He desperately wanted to see them, or at least send some word, but he was still afraid it was too dangerous to do so – the last thing he wanted was for something to happen to his family simply because he was a Grey Warden. So, he avoided drawing attention to them, for now. The bitter irony didn't escape him that a year ago, being recruited as a Grey Warden would have been a great and solemn honor. Of course, in his eyes, and Alistair's, it still was, but in the current state of things, it made them targets. He wouldn't risk his family's lives that way, just to let him know that he was still alive. They'd hopefully find out soon enough – or if he perished from here on out, they'd be none the wiser that he'd survived Ostagar.

It was with this lingering sense of disappointment that Alessar led the group towards the north gate of the market, the quickest route out of the city proper. He walked silently with Zevran by his side, Alistair and Wynne discussing the Urn of Sacred Ashes several strides behind them. It seemed that rumors were flying in the city about the rediscovery of the Ashes; Brother Genitivi apparently had wasted little time. Well... Alessar was of two minds about the place being opened up to pilgrims, but it was hard to resent the faithful for their simple enthusiasm. Perhaps people's spirits would lighten a little, knowing that such a relic really did exist in the world, and that could only be a good thing.

They were nearly to the gate itself when a stripling boy ran up to Alessar, looked the elf and his companions over cursorily to identify them, and handed him a scrap of paper. Before Alessar could ask who, what or why, the boy dashed off, claiming more messages to deliver.

Alessar glanced at Zevran, who gave him a significant look. "That was prompt, wasn't it?" the Warden said lightly before unfolding the note.

_I believe there are matters we might speak of that could be mutually beneficial to us both. If you wish to explore these matters further, you can find me in one of the rooms at the Gnawed Noble. I do look forward to an amicable discussion._

The note was unsigned, but there was little doubt in Alessar's mind as to who it was from. He looked up at the others questioningly. "What do you think?"

The two elves had apprised their human comrades about the earlier encounter with the Crow master; Wynne now looked mildly disapproving that Alessar was even considering talking to Ignacio further, while Alistair looked dubious.

"I don't know, what if it's a trap?" the warrior said with a frown.

"In one of the rented rooms of a high-end tavern?" Alessar shook his head, feeling sure on that count. "Not enough room for them to outnumber us, and they have to know that would be their only safe bet of taking us on." He glanced at Zevran for confirmation.

The assassin nodded in agreement, though he didn't look happy. "I think this particular meeting would be safe enough... but I would be wary of making any deals with Ignacio. I admit, though... I am curious as to what he thinks he has to offer. If he knows of someone who will support us against your Teyrn Loghain, then perhaps it is worth talking to him."

"Well, all right," Alistair said reluctantly. "We can just leave if we don't like what he has to say, I suppose."

_Hopefully,_ Alessar didn't say out loud. He believed what he said, though – the Crows would have to be foolish to take on their group in the middle of a popular tavern, unless they had incredibly good assassins who could strike quickly, silently, and with complete success. Zevran did not seem much concerned with such an occurrence, however, and of all of them, he would know best if that was a likely possibility...

The elven Warden glanced at Wynne, who had been silent so far. She raised an eyebrow in reply. "What Zevran says is true enough, I suppose. Although I dislike the idea of being beholden to a cabal of assassins."

Alessar responded with a small smile. "Agreed. ...No offense, Zevran."

The other elf smirked. "I didn't much care for being beholden to them myself, my dear Warden." He checked the hilts of his daggers, a habitual motion Alessar had seen many times before an imminent fight. "Shall we see what our new friend has to say, then?"

The Warden nodded, and when no one else raised any further dissent, he led the way back to the Gnawed Noble.

-to be continued-

* * *

Author's Note:

While some folks may never come across Ignacio and the Denerim Crows in their own games, I thought it was something that needed to be explored. I just didn't realize it would take so long. D:

Knot 12 follows immediately after this one. (They were originally a single chapter, but... **no.**)

Dragon Age: Origins and all characters here besides Alessar belong to Bioware and their wonderful writers.


	12. A Most Unlikely Ally

**Knot 12: A Most Unlikely Ally  
**

The Wardens' party had been to the Gnawed Noble Tavern before, assisting the Denerim city guard with some out-of-control mercenaries; the barmaids recognized them, or at least, they recognized Alessar and Zevran, who stood out as openly armed elves, and the group was immediately offered drinks. Alessar demurred politely, saying that they were there for business, and inquired where they might find the Antivan merchant they were meeting.

The girl who answered seemed nonplussed, if not a little nervous, as she directed the party to the first guest room in the back. They entered cautiously, keeping an eye out for anything as mundane as a mechanical trap or a sneak attack, but the way was clear.

Ignacio waited in the innermost room, two silent guards looming in the corners. Alessar knew Alistair and Zevran would make sure their exit route would not be blocked off – at least, not from the inside – so for the moment, he turned his full attention to the Crow master, who regarded him with a thin smile.

The man nodded in greeting. "You're here about a note?" he asked, his tone almost too casual. "Maybe we have some things we can talk about."

"Just see that the conversation stays civil," Zevran said icily. "If this is a trap..."

Alessar didn't have to look to know that their other companions were regarding Zevran in some surprise – he rarely let irritation or anger show so baldly. The Warden wondered if he was truly so vexed as to be unable to hold it back, or if perhaps he was trying to demonstrate to Ignacio that he had the upper hand now. Alessar found it hard to believe the former, but he didn't know nearly enough about the Crows and their workings to do more than speculate about the latter...

"Zevran, is it?" Ignacio looked at the elf as he would at a dog with an annoying bark. "You are Taliesen's problem, but _I_ consider you already dead. You are of no notice to me, as of yet."

Alessar heard Zevran's quick intake of breath. Taliesen – his old partner in the Crows. "Taliesen's problem?" the Warden echoed. There was a quiet sound behind him of leather rustling as Zevran shifted his weight from one foot to the other, apparently unable to hide his interest in the topic.

"Ah, I think I've said too much." The Crow master wore the faintest hint of a smirk as he glanced at Zevran. "But these are matters of little importance." He waved a hand dismissively as turned back to Alessar. "The Warden here is who I'm interested in."

"But the Crows were hired to kill us," the dark-haired elf said, raising an eyebrow. "Why should we be chatting now?" This was seeming like more and more of a bad idea, but... if nothing else, he wanted to determine if Zevran was, in fact, going to be turned in to his former brethren, or if the Crows even still cared. Unfortunately, it sounded like they might.

"I can't stress enough that _I_ wasn't hired to do anything," Ignacio pointed out. "An associate was, and he failed – badly."

"I'd like to see you do any better," Zevran bristled, sounding honestly irritated now. Of course, he hadn't tried to take on the Wardens in hopes of actually _winning_, but the other Antivan didn't know that, and now he seemed to be insulting Zevran's skill, or at least his judgment.

"Do you take me for a fool?" Ignacio snapped. "That is a contract I'd never take." He "hmphed" and looked away from the former Crow in disgust. "As for your concerns, however, Warden... it is possible that the client may try to hire more help, since this job was not completed properly. _However,_ I'm hoping we can make sure that won't happen."

_Ah. So he's offering some sort of immunity from the Crows?_ Alessar mused. _But what is it he wants in return...?_ "I'm listening," he said out loud, crossing his arms. He was going to try his best to seem the "tough guy" here; he wanted to convince this Ignacio that crossing him would not be wise.

"Ferelden is a busy place right now: the Blight, civil war, other assorted mayhem. Lots of people not getting along, yes?" the Crow master began. "The people who handle some of these... disagreements... can get very busy at times like this. And... well. There aren't many people to turn to if you're short-staffed in some lines of work."

"...So you're hiring help?" Alessar asked incredulously. In the back of his mind, he had expected something of the sort, but not put quite like this; he had anticipated being asked to kill a single specific person, but the idea of working with the Antivan Crows as a mercenary was a little hard to swallow.

"You could say that. There aren't too many people we could turn to," Ignacio said with an eloquent shrug, "so someone who's crossed our path and lived... well, maybe they could help out. Earn some coin, make some new friends. Everyone wins."

_Except the target,_ the Warden thought darkly. "How would this work, then?"

The Crow turned aside and opened a small trunk, pulling out a sealed scroll. "I hand you this, and you read it, learn about someone interesting. If you find out something... unfortunate happens to him, then the next time we talk, I'll thank you for letting me know, maybe offer some token of gratitude."

From behind Alessar, Wynne made a sound of clear disapproval. "I don't like the sound of this one bit."

"If you don't like what's on the scroll, you don't _have_ to do anything," Ignacio pointed out. "Maybe he has an accident and someone else tells me about it. No need to concern yourself with it."

_So... I could examine the contract and decide not to act upon it?_ Alessar thought. That sounded a little too good to be true; what if he went and warned a potential target? It was likely that if he even so much as _read_ the scroll, he would be watched to make sure he did no such thing. Turning down the Crows' offer was one thing, but double-crossing them was almost certainly something else entirely.

"If I agree to do this for you, I want no more Crows after me," the Warden said evenly, putting his price out in the open.

"Ah... That, I cannot do." Ignacio shook his head. "One master has a contract on you," he pointed out, his eyes sliding over to Zevran for a moment, then back. "But if you help us out, here, maybe if that master asks for reinforcements, he'll just get silence, yes?"

Alessar glanced at Zevran for an opinion. This affected him as much as it did the Wardens, after all.

"... It's true enough, he has no influence over my old Master's contract," the assassin said grudgingly. "And while it is unusual for a master to ask for help, it does happen in... extraordinary circumstances. Other masters are free to refuse, of course, and many do. It's all another set of steps in the dance, after all." He looked pointedly at Ignacio. "But if you are playing us false, _comadrejo_..."

The elven Warden had no idea what the word meant, but Ignacio's eyes narrowed. "You're already dead in my eyes, whoreson," he hissed. "Take care that I don't learn otherwise."

The two Crows were glaring at each other hatefully, and everyone else in the room was watching them; no one noticed the movement of Alessar's wrist until the blade hidden in his bracer flashed as he pointed it at Ignacio's throat. The bodyguards immediately went for their swords, as did Alistair and Zevran, but Ignacio raised his hand quellingly, and looked at Alessar with an unreadable expression.

"I do believe Zevran has already suggested that you keep a civil tongue," the dark-haired elf said coldly, forcing down his sudden surge of real anger. "Otherwise, I think we have nothing more to discuss."

"Of course, Warden," Ignacio said smoothly, once again appearing unruffled. "I apologize for losing my temper."

Alessar lowered his arm and slid the slim blade back into its hiding place. Daveth had showed him that trick, months and months ago in camp at Ostagar. The short little concealed blades were of little use in a full-on battle, but were ideal for moments like this. He could have killed Ignacio before the bodyguards ever reached him, and everyone in the room was aware of it. The balance had just shifted entirely.

He could feel Zevran watching him, and felt a little embarrassed now by his display. But Ignacio had gone too far with his paired insult and threat, and Alessar had reacted without thoroughly thinking it through. Fortunately, it seemed to be working in their favor.

"Just give me the scroll," the Warden said wearily. Ignacio did so in silence.

This would be the telling moment, perhaps – what sort of people were the Crows taking contracts on? What sorts of people were hiring them? Alessar broke the seal and unfurled the scroll, careful not to appear to be in too much of a rush as he did so, then laughed shortly as he read the name on the contract.

"Enjoying the reading?" the Crow master inquired. He seemed a bit at a loss on how to treat his suddenly dangerous new contact.

"I don't suppose there's any bonus for fulfilling a contract quickly, is there?" Alessar asked. Zevran sidled up alongside him to read over his shoulder, then let out a bark of laughter of his own.

"It would depend on the contract," Ignacio replied, regarding the two elves warily, "but for that one, not particularly. Why?"

"It doesn't do you much good to ask me to kill a dead man," Alessar said flatly, no amusement in his voice at all now. He tossed the useless scroll back to the Crow master.

"W-what? You already–?" Ignacio stammered in surprise for a moment before recovering. "Ah, but I should have known. I suppose Paedan's little Grey Warden scam caught your attention, did it? Well... the contract is fulfilled, all the same." The man pitched the scroll into the fireplace before turning back to the little trunk and withdrawing a small, jingling satchel and another scroll. "Thank you for this most interesting news," he said as he handed the things to Alessar. "Here's something else that may be of interest. Do feel free to take your time with this one."

Alessar was no master of reading people, but even he could tell that Ignacio was starting to feel a little uncomfortable. He heard Zevran snort in amusement behind him, confirming his observation. "Very well, but I promise nothing."

_And neither do I,_ was the implicit reply, as Ignacio nodded slowly. "Of course, Warden. If that is all, then, good luck to you."

"Good day," the Warden said curtly before turning and leaving the room, not bothering to acknowledge the glares of the bodyguards as he walked by. His companions followed him in silence as he walked through the open taproom to the more private section on the other side of the tavern.

"Needing a drink after all that?" Alistair asked, sounding slightly amused. Alessar turned to reply, but was interrupted by Wynne.

"I think this is a very dangerous game you're trying to play, Alessar," the mage said in an admonishing tone. "Let alone whatever specific things you'll be asked to do. You're not even getting a guarantee of immunity!"

Alessar withheld a sigh. He knew Wynne had a point, but her way of making it... He shook his head slightly. "We can discuss it further, and I do still have the power to refuse," he reminded her. "Right this moment, though – yes, I could use a drink." He nodded towards a table, indicating that they should all have a seat.

Wynne's lips pressed into a thin line, but after a moment, she relented. "We need to consider our reputations – _your_ reputations as Grey Wardens, when it comes down to it," she insisted, even as she moved to sit down.

"But look at the first contract, Wynne," Alistair said reasonably, sitting down across from the mage. "He was already an enemy of the Grey Wardens in the first place."

"Yes, but..."

Alessar left his templar friend to that particular exercise in persuasion; if even _he_ could see the possible good in this arrangement, perhaps he could convince Wynne. In the meantime, the elven Warden meant to find a barmaid. As he stepped away, he realized that Zevran had not sat down, and was still at his side.

Well, that generally meant the Antivan wanted to talk. Alessar glanced over at him with an inquiring look.

"You continue to surprise me, my dear Warden," Zevran chuckled. "Knives in your bracers? Beautiful. Have you had those all along?"

"Since Ostagar," the Warden said with a slight shrug. "A trick I learned from a thief." Thinking of Daveth saddened him; he had taken a liking to the easygoing cutpurse in their all-too-brief acquaintance, and had been horrified at his death in the Joining.

"Mmm, and all the more effective for being seldom-used, yes? I think you startled all of us, even me, and I've seen a lot of concealed blades in my time," the other elf said with a little grin.

Alessar recognized the faint signs of strain in Zevran's eyes. Of course, the entire exchange with Ignacio had been of particular significance to him, and they would surely need to discuss that at length, but the Warden got the clear impression that there was something else afoot at the moment. Typically, though, Zevran would not be the one to bring up _feelings_, leaving Alessar to try to sound out what was wrong on his own.

"I think I startled myself," he admitted with a sheepish smile. "I just... I don't know what you said to him, but all of a sudden he was calling you names and threatening to throw you to the Crows again, and I..." The Warden shrugged helplessly. "I just got so angry and worried at the same time... I guess all that was on my mind at the moment was that I didn't want him to think I'd let him get away with that..."

Zevran looked at him searchingly for a moment, then shook his head, bemused. "When I sought your help to escape the Crows, this was not the sort of situation I had in mind," he said with a quiet laugh. "Ah, _cielo._ People like Ignacio have been calling me things like 'whoreson', and worse, my entire life. It ceases to have an effect, after a while."

The somewhat distant look in his eyes as he spoke suggested to Alessar that that was not precisely true. Just because a pain was familiar, after all, that didn't mean it no longer hurt. "It's still wrong," he insisted.

"Actually, it's entirely correct, isn't it?" The Antivan's grin was a little too sharp to be sincere.

"_Zevran,_" the Warden chided him gently, shaking his head.

Finally the assassin sighed. "I don't need you to... defend my honor, my friend." He smiled faintly. "Not that I have much to speak of, of course."

Alessar recognized another of Zevran's distancing attempts when he saw one. He didn't intend to let this one succeed, either. "I'm sorry, but it's part of the deal," he said with a small grin. "I could do no less for a friend, or..." he trailed off, not wanting to imply something that might cause the other elf to back off.

"Or someone who was more than a friend?" Zevran supplied with a playful smirk, leaning in to speak more quietly.

"Exactly," the Warden agreed, pleased that the other man had been the one to fill in that blank. Of course, "more than a friend" could mean any number of things, but... one step at a time.

"Hm. And here I thought I was supposed to be the one protecting _you_," the Antivan elf mused, some of the strain finally leaving his eyes as he smiled at Alessar. "Ah, well. I suppose this arrangement will do."

"I'm terribly glad you think so," Alessar said with a grin. And he was. Was it normal to be so nervous about the status of one's relationship? He had no clue. But he frequently worried about Zevran deciding that their... _arrangement_ was a terrible idea, so whenever the other elf reasserted his interest, he felt a strong sense of relief. He was sure some might call it pathetic, but... he felt how he felt, and he wasn't going to try to fight it. He had no reason to.

Zevran flashed him a smile – that flirtatious smile that Alessar still found all too effective – before beckoning to one of the barmaids. The Warden hastily composed himself as the woman came over; it would be just a _little_ unseemly for him to be grinning like an idiot, after all. ...Or at least, before he'd had a few drinks.

* * *

Author's Note:

Why did this get so long? Seriously...

I wonder how other mostly-good Wardens handle this particular offer. Playing with Crows seems like a good way to lose an eye or something, yes?

Dragon Age: Origins and all characters here besides Alessar belong to Bioware and their wonderful writers.


	13. Uncertain Steps

**Knot 13: Uncertain Steps  
**

The silence of the Deep Roads was oppressive, to say the least. Alessar had never spent such a long period of time in the stillness of the earth before, and it bothered him considerably. He could definitely sympathize with the dwarves' fear of the sky, even if he couldn't exactly understand it, as they likewise probably would never understand the sense of closing-in the earth and stone walls gave him. Even in the thaigs or on the ruined Roads themselves, with their high ceilings and vast open spaces, the sense of being under the ground never really abated. The atmosphere just felt so... _heavy_.

At the moment, they were walking on one of those broad, paved causeways, led by the red-haired dwarf, Oghren – he was the only one even vaguely familiar with the place they were headed to. He and Wynne were currently discussing ale, of all things, with occasional input from Zevran. It was mildly amusing, and a cheerful distraction from their dreary surroundings.

Alessar had little to contribute to the conversation; he wasn't particularly well-versed in different varieties of alcohol, or at least, not in comparison to his companions. Besides which, he was keeping his attention open for darkspawn, so it was probably just as well that he wasn't too deeply involved in the chatter.

The Warden was, in fact, "listening" (it wasn't quite a sound, but that was the easiest way to describe the sensation) for darkspawn when he was surprised by a light touch on his arm. He looked over at Zevran, who smiled slightly and gestured for him to wait a moment and let their other companions get a bit farther away.

"Zevran?" Alessar asked quietly once he judged the others to be out of earshot. "Is something wrong?" The other elf's smile had been less than happy, and he wasn't entirely sure why that would be.

"I... just wanted to ask you about something," the assassin said with uncharacteristic seriousness. He resumed walking again, now a good distance behind Wynne and Oghren, and Alessar joined him.

"Anything," the Warden said, frowning in concern.

Zevran looked at him for a moment before turning his eyes back to the stone roadway. "It is... about Morrigan."

"Morrigan?" Alessar echoed, mystified.

"I... have seen her watching you, at times, and tried to think little of it – you _are_ a very handsome man, after all." The Antivan flashed him a little grin. "But of late, I have to wonder if this is a... complication."

"A _what?_" Alessar stopped in his tracks, staring at his lover. _What is he _thinking?_ Morrigan and I have _never_..._

Then he remembered what had happened in the Orzammar commons before their small party had set off for Caridin's Cross. He had been browsing a merchant's wares when he found a golden hand mirror that reminded him of Morrigan's story about the mirror she had stolen as a young girl. The witch had sounded honestly wistful for a few moments while speaking of the thing, so Alessar thought to surprise her with a small gift, hoping she wouldn't see it as a patronizing gesture.

On the contrary, though, Morrigan had seemed touched, in her somewhat awkward, distant way, and had seemed to open up slightly after that. Perhaps that was what Zevran had noticed.

"A complication," the other elf repeated. He had not paused, and was still walking slowly forward. "I do know one when I see one, my friend."

Zevran's voice carried a chiding note, as if the Warden shouldn't have thought him so naive. Feeling a sudden apprehension, some little sibling of panic, Alessar took several quick strides to catch up and stopped in front of the other man, forcing him to halt.

"Zevran." The Warden waited for the assassin to look up to make sure he had his complete attention. "There is _nothing_ between Morrigan and me beyond friendship – not from my end, anyway." Of course, he couldn't speak for Morrigan, but... he'd had this discussion with the apostate mage once before, and had made it quite clear that he sought nothing more from her. She had seemed somewhat disappointed, but understanding – he had been with Zevran for quite some time already at that point.

The assassin was looking at him dubiously. "'Simply a gift for a beautiful woman', my dear Warden? That does not sound like 'nothing'."

Alessar stared at the other man in dismay. Yes, he'd said that to Morrigan when giving her the mirror, after she questioned what he wanted from her in return. It was an honest enough compliment, and (it had always seemed to him) she was just a little vain about her appearance. He hadn't meant anything serious by it, and now he wondered how _she_ had interpreted it... "That was only a bit of, I don't know, _courtliness_, nothing more," he said earnestly. "Zevran..."

"I would be the last person in the world to hold you back, my friend, and I've certainly never made any claims on you." The assassin smiled easily, his eyes unfathomable. "You and I have had our fun, but if you wish to pursue her, I will gladly step aside."

This entire conversation was becoming a series of increasingly sharper knives in Alessar's gut. Was Zevran simply not listening to him? Or... was he so convinced – or conditioned to believe – that he was worth so much less than other people... other lovers? That he would always be the choice of last resort, rather than the first?

"_Zevran._" He reached out and grasped the other elf's upper arms, causing him to look up sharply, his amber eyes widening slightly at the Warden's vehemence. "Please, listen to me: I am not interested in Morrigan in that way. Not even remotely. I want..." It was hard for Alessar to speak so bluntly, but he _had_ to get his meaning across clearly, with no room for misinterpretation. "I want to be with _you_," he said in a softer tone. "And I had thought that was obvious enough to everyone by now, Morrigan included."

That was the simple truth; the two elves weren't particularly discreet, except (_usually_) at night in the tent. The Warden thought that their relationship was clear enough – they had been keeping company for months now – that none of their companions would try to interfere, but apparently Zevran felt otherwise. Or perhaps Alessar had been thinking of it too seriously; he knew how the assassin felt (or claimed to feel) about love, after all. Maybe to him, this was still something easy to break off, a bit of amusement that had been fun while it lasted.

Except... he had sounded so _sad_. Perhaps not in the same way someone else might, but the Warden knew him well enough by now – or at least, he _thought_ he did – to hear the resignation in his voice. He let go of Zevran and stepped back, his insides churning. Was the other man going to try to push him away, still? Would he be even more inclined to do so, now that the Warden had been so open about his feelings? Not that he'd ever really hidden them, but perhaps this was too forceful...

"I... see." The assassin's expression was difficult to read for a long moment, but finally, he smiled, the light reaching his eyes this time. "And glad I am to hear it."

Alessar could have collapsed in relief at that moment. Mentally chastising himself for being a moonstruck, sentimental idiot, he managed to restrain his happiness to a half-grin that, no doubt, made him look like a fool. Sure enough, Zevran chuckled at his expression as he resumed walking and waved for the Warden to join him.

"I'm sorry if I caused you undue distress, _cielo_," the assassin said, a thread of relieved laughter in his voice as well. "I would simply hate to... cause problems within our merry little band, but if there is truly nothing between you and our lovely enchantress, then all is well, yes?"

Alessar glanced sidelong at his companion, his smile fading. Was Zevran's true worry really for the harmony of their group – a thin veneer even on the best of days? Would he never have brought up his suspicions otherwise? If, Maker forbid, Alessar had _wanted_ to court Morrigan, and if she honestly did not object to sharing him with Zevran, would the assassin really be all right with that? And did that mean that Zevran would feel no qualms about taking another lover, if the Warden was fine with it?

_Or..._ was that simply Zevran's excuse for pressing the matter? His hesitance – instantly noticeable as a break from his normal patterns of fluent, glib speech – gave Alessar just enough reason to wonder...

It was maddening, this little dance that they did. The Warden could never be sure if he was simply too dense or inexperienced to understand Zevran's subtleties, or if the Antivan was trying to cover up his emotions or lying outright... or if, worst of all, he felt little or nothing to begin with.

He kept reminding himself that Zevran had been rigorously trained since childhood to suppress and hide his feelings. That, at least, gave him continued hope that there really was _something_ there, and the assassin simply wasn't comfortable sharing it, or perhaps didn't know how to do so. The alternative was... not pleasant to dwell on.

Zevran had noticed his continued silence and turned to look at him, a hint of concern apparent in the tiny crease between his brows. "Is... all not well, then?" he asked with a sort of nervous chuckle.

Alessar mentally cursed at himself for his lapse as he shook his head quickly. "No, it's fine, I was just... thinking."

This time it was Zevran who stopped in place, gently catching the Warden's arm to keep him close. "I... am sorry if I have given offense, _cielo_," he said quietly, now looking less relaxed and more intent. "I simply do not wish to..." He seemed to check himself and reconsider his words before he continued, "I do not wish to press my attentions where they are unwanted. That would be a disservice to both of us, I think."

Alessar stared at him, not quite believing his ears, but when he opened his mouth to stammer a reply, Zevran held up a hand to forestall him. "No, no, I understand now that that is _not_ the case," the assassin reassured him laughingly, "I just... wanted to be sure."

"I..." The elven Warden was thinking so hard that he was getting a headache. He was terrified of saying the wrong thing at this point, and trying not to do so was like walking on a narrow plank while wearing a blindfold. "I had thought it was... pretty clear," he said hesitantly, not wanting to sound challenging.

"It _was_, or at least, I thought it was," Zevran admitted, "but... people's tastes change, do they not? Some people seek variety, after all." He shrugged, as if this were only to be expected.

Alessar almost laughed in disbelief. Lack of _variety_ had yet to be a problem with the assassin, as far as he was concerned. But then, he wasn't exactly demanding. Indeed, he had always worried off and on that Zevran would find _him_ uninteresting, sooner rather than later, and would move on. Was _he_ one of those... seekers of variety? Given Zevran's rather colorful tales of his past, was there any reason to think that he wasn't? Once their task was done, and they were no longer bound together by duty and an oath, would the assassin happily flit off, in search of someone new? It was, after all, a bit hard to believe that someone so worldly would be content to stay with someone so... _not_.

He struggled against the sense of hopelessness these thoughts brought on. The other elf had left an opening in the conversation that needed to be addressed... whether or not it would really matter in the long run. "That's... not what I'm looking for," the Warden said finally.

"Hmm." Zevran had not relinquished his light grasp on the archer's arm, and now he leaned in close, giving Alessar no opportunity to back away – not that he wanted to. "And just what is it you _are_ looking for, _cielo mio?_" he murmured rhetorically, as if this were a puzzle he had tried to solve many times. He rested his forehead against Alessar's, a little gesture they sometimes shared when out in the open like this – intimate, but not so heated as to be... distracting.

The assassin posed an excellent question; Alessar wasn't sure of the answer, himself. Maybe what he wanted most was to _know_: what was he, to Zevran? What did the other elf honestly feel, behind all of the defenses he'd had to protect himself with over the years? If he could know for certain, if he didn't have to keep wondering and guessing... Even if the truth was something that would make him unhappy, at least he would know it...

"Ahhhh, I should have known." A gruff voice rang out from further up the corridor, shattering the quiet moment. Alessar looked up guiltily to see Oghren and Wynne approaching, apparently having backtracked when they realized the elven rogues were no longer behind them.

"Bleedin' elves. The darkspawn aren't gonna be too impressed with your canoodlin'," the dwarf growled in irritation.

"This is hardly 'canoodling', my fine dwarven friend," Zevran said loftily, even as he made a show of slowly running his hands down Alessar's arms before releasing him – a display made all the more ludicrous by the fact that the Warden's arms were entirely covered by his armor. "Although if you would like, I'm sure we could demonstrate the difference."

"Hey, keep your pants where I can see 'em – both o' ya," Oghren said quickly. "Bah! Can we just get this show on the road?"

Behind him, Wynne was wearing her classic "pleading the Maker for patience" look, although which of them she was most incensed with, Alessar couldn't begin to guess. He cleared his throat self-consciously. "Um, yes. Let's get moving. We'll take point this time, shall we?" He glanced at Zevran, who nodded in agreement. Between the two of them, they usually managed to spot any traps and take out any stray darkspawn with deadly efficiency.

"Yeah, fine, just don't get your feet taken off by claw traps because you were too busy makin' goo-goo eyes at each other," Oghren grumbled.

Zevran grinned at Alessar as the two elves moved forward. "Your lack of faith in our professionalism pains me so," the assassin said over his shoulder, smirking at Oghren's wordless growl of annoyance.

The Warden couldn't quite hold back a chuckle as he unslung his bow from his shoulder. No, they might not be "strictly professional" in the field, but they were an odd, cobbled-together group, after all, not a company of mercenaries. As long as they were successful – and as far as he was concerned, no one could argue that they weren't – why give up their souls for the sake of duty?

He watched Zevran for a long moment as the other elf prowled ahead, daggers in hand and at the ready. No... not only was sealing his heart away a distasteful idea in principle, but at this point, it was practically impossible. As unwise as that probably was, he couldn't regret that, ever. Maybe he was setting himself up for a painful fall, but... he couldn't turn away, not until it became obvious that the assassin was no longer interested. If there was any hope of their relationship continuing, or, by Andraste's grace, growing into something else, then... he would cling to that hope for as long as he could.

.fin.

* * *

Author's Note:

In case you get to wondering, this scenario DID happen in my game. Damn Alessar for trying to be nice to people. XD

Many thanks to those who beta'ed this chapter: **Tarante11a, Sresla **and **Charnia**! They're all bloody good writers, and I highly recommend checking out their work!

Dragon Age: Origins and all characters here besides Alessar belong to Bioware and their wonderful writers.


	14. An Unwanted Reunion

**Knot 14: An Unwanted Reunion  
**

Walking along streets he knew well, Alessar was so tense that he felt a distinctly irrational urge to scream and let it all out. Returning to Denerim was never a cheerful occasion for him, but this instance threatened to make those previous visits seem like happy springtime jaunts in comparison.

With all of their treaty alliances in place, the Wardens had finally returned to the capital for the Landsmeet. _The Landsmeet._ They were going to challenge Loghain in front of all the nobles of Ferelden... and he was supposed to be leading the charge. _Him,_ an elf who had been born and raised in the Alienage whose walls were visible from the Palace district. Would, _could_ the nobles see past that?

Trying not to dwell on that eventual confrontation, he glanced sidelong at Zevran, who was walking next to him, looking as anxious as Alessar felt. They had just come from a final meeting with Ignacio; the Crow master had assured the Wardens that the assassins would take no _future_ contracts against them... But the original contract was still open, and that was what made the two rogues so uneasy.

"Even now, until you kill all of Taliesen's men, you will have to fight my brothers. We never cancel a contract once accepted," the Crow master had explained, shaking his head. Zevran, his expression guarded, had nodded in agreement when Alessar glanced at him for confirmation. That had been bad enough, but as they were leaving the room, Ignacio had one last bit of news to share.

"I understand there is a very skilled bard in the city these days. Perhaps, between all of your comings and goings, you'll hear him perform."

Zevran had turned a shade paler, but refused to speak of whatever bothered him about that peculiar statement until after they left the tavern. With the two Grey Wardens and Wynne looking at him in various degrees of concern, he had explained quickly.

"The 'bard' is an old partner of mine, Taliesen," the assassin had said, eyes downcast. "It has something to do with his name, I don't recall the meaning of it all, but... that is how he is referred to, when names must be avoided. He is in Denerim now, and he will certainly be seeking us."

_Us_ – the Wardens, and Zevran himself. Alessar could only wonder what was going through _Zevran's_ head right now, since some kind of confrontation seemed inevitable. Taliesen surely knew that the Wardens _had_ to come into Denerim for the Landsmeet, and there were only so many ways to get around in the city. The odds of the Crows finding them were very high at this point, which was why, even though they were trying to take a circuitous route to Arl Eamon's estate, they were on edge, the two elves most of all.

That exhausting state of hyper-awareness paid off, however, as the group walked through a quiet back alley. There was a broad stone staircase leading to the rear entrance of one of the buildings, and at the foot of the stairs, something seemed _off_ about the ground. Alessar held up a hand to halt the others and unslung his longbow from his shoulder.

If there was an ambush here, surely they'd already been spotted; no point in keeping quiet now. "Traps at the foot of the stairs," he said over his shoulder. The others drew their weapons immediately, preparing for a fight.

Alessar's job at a moment like this was to find and disarm the traps as quickly as possible before joining the fray. Ideally, Wynne or Zevran would cover him with long-range fire, but quite often that didn't work out as planned. If there were archers hiding from cover, or melee attackers using the arts of stealth, he would have nothing protecting him but his own senses and agility.

Still, this was the role he was accustomed to, and was the reason he wore heavier armor than Zevran's light drakeskin leather. Signaling his intent to the others, he cautiously approached the first disturbance in the dirt that might have been a trap. Zevran walked close behind, his own longbow at the ready, but Alessar, his gaze focused on the ground, heard the other elf halt in his tracks. With a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, the elven Warden looked up to the top of the stone staircase.

A single dark-haired human man in studded leather armor stood there, his eyes boring into Zevran until he realized he'd caught Alessar's attention. He turned to the elven Warden slowly, a calculated display of contempt.

"And so here is the mighty Grey Warden, at long last," he drawled, the sharpness of his gray eyes belying his insouciant air. "The Antivan Crows send their greetings, once again."

"How thoughtful of them to have sent you, Taliesen," Zevran said as he took a half-step forward to stand next to Alessar. His voice carried an overtone of uncharacteristic harshness. "Or did you volunteer for the job?"

"I volunteered, of course!" the other man replied with a short laugh. "When I heard that the great _Zevran_ had gone rogue, I simply had to see it for myself."

"Is that so?" The Antivan elf's tone was cold, wary. "Well, here I am, in the flesh."

Nerves fraying, Alessar silently listened to the verbal duel – it was far too sharp to be called _sparring_. It was hard to tell that these two had been friends, let alone lovers; was this how friends spoke to each other, among the Crows? Or were other things coming into play here? Was he hearing Taliesen's anger at Zevran's betrayal of the Crows? Was Zevran the one feeling betrayed...?

Taliesen took half a step forward, abandoning his pose of nonchalance. "You can return with me, Zev," he said, sounding earnest for the first time. "I _know_ why you did this, and I don't blame you. Anyone can make a mistake." Zevran flinched slightly, and Alessar could guess at the emotion behind that tiny movement, but the other Crow pressed on. "It's not too late to come back. We'll make up a story, and they'll never be the wiser."

"Our 'stories' do not exactly have a proven record of effectiveness, Taliesen," Zevran said quietly.

The human narrowed his eyes at the unexpected blow. "The Masters could overlook even this, Zev."

"_If_ the contract is fulfilled," Zevran said succinctly, eyes locked on his former comrade.

"Of course," was Taliesen's matter-of-fact reply. He looked pointedly at Alessar.

The Warden was torn between holding his tongue – this conversation seemed to be occurring on more than one level, and up until the last part, seemed to have little do with _him_ – and making his own plea for Zevran to stay. But if he asked the other elf to remain at his side, as a friend or something more, wasn't he doing the same thing as Taliesen? It should have been _Zevran's_ choice – the choice he had not been truly allowed to make until now. He'd gone from slavery among the Crows to indenture to a Grey Warden – voluntarily, but it could still be seen as replacing one collar with another.

...But the merest glimmer of the thought of Zevran turning on him now made Alessar want to fall to his knees and _beg_. His gloved hands tightened nervously on his bow as he watched his lover, waiting for his decision.

"No," Zevran said finally, his voice low, but hard as steel. "I'm not about to let that happen."

The other Crow's eyes widened in disbelief. "_What?_" He looked from Zevran, to Alessar, then back to Zevran again. "You've gone soft," he said in disgust, anger hardening his tone.

Relief had almost blinded Alessar for a moment, but the other elf's declaration – spoken and unspoken – let him find his confidence, and his voice. "Zevran doesn't need the Crows anymore," he said determinedly, looking up at Taliesen. "He has a place here now."

He thought – it _must_ have been his imagination – that he heard a very quiet intake of breath next to him, but he didn't dare turn away from the human, who was looking at him with an unpleasant smirk.

"A place with _you_, you mean?" Taliesen's voice dripped with contempt. He'd obviously come to his own conclusions about what was keeping Zevran here.

Seeing no reason to lie, but still reluctant to lay claim to the other elf, as if he were property, Alessar raised his chin in a gesture of affirmation and defiance. "If that is his wish."

For a split second, Taliesen looked furious, but his expression melted so quickly into scorn that Alessar couldn't be sure of what he'd just seen. "You don't even know who you're talking about, do you?" he said with an incredulous laugh.

It was a well-aimed strike; the Warden was sharply aware of the fact that there were many things he didn't know about Zevran, including the depth of his feelings. But more than that, the comment seemed like a slur against the other elf, an implication that he was incapable of committing to something... or someone. _That,_ he wanted to answer.

Zevran beat him to it, however. "Neither do you, Taliesen," he said softly, looking up at the human with a complicated expression of both disappointment and resolve. Alessar heard the regret in his voice, and knew that the elven assassin was committed, now. "I'm sorry, my old friend," he continued. "I'm not coming back... and you should have stayed in Antiva."

The silent tableau held for several moments, the two former brothers-in-arms staring hard at each other; Alessar could only guess what was wordlessly passing between them. Finally, Taliesen raised a hand, and the expected ambush was sprung at last, nearly a dozen assassins appearing seemingly from nowhere. Still, no one attacked – everyone seemed to be _waiting_.

"You always were a sentimental fool," Taliesen hissed in a furious undertone, reaching for his blades. At that signal, the battle began.

"Let me handle Taliesen," Zevran said grimly as he drew his daggers. Alessar nodded and quickly knelt down to start disarming the traps at the foot of the staircase, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw the elven assassin leap to the second stair, avoiding the line of traps entirely. Behind him, he heard the distinctive sound of Alistair's shield bashing into someone, as well as the unearthly _zaps_ of arcane bolts from Wynne's staff.

Arrows were flying by him, and he felt three hit his shoulders and back, stopped by his brigandine. The thought of another arrow in his neck made him shudder and work faster – he was disarming the third of the four traps he'd spotted, and he muttered a prayer under his breath that he hadn't missed any.

There was a startling burst of cold air behind him as he worked on the last trap; he turned his head slightly to see an assassin bearing down on him, slowed down by a blast of ice from Wynne. Hastily, the Warden triggered the claw trap with an arrow and kicked upwards at his attacker as he rose from his crouch. Still half-numb from the magical chill, the assassin doubled over from the unexpected attack, giving Alessar precious seconds to draw his daggers and spin around to his opponent's side. Too late, the assassin tried to turn to keep up with him, but the Warden had an elf's agility, and he ended the bout with a stab into the unprotected area under the assassin's arm, followed up by a quick slash to the throat.

Scooping up his longbow, Alessar ducked behind the stairs for a moment to take stock of the battle as he wiped his daggers clean and resheathed them. Alistair was defending Wynne from both a hail of arrows and the blades of several assassins; meanwhile, Zevran was locked in combat with Taliesen and two other opponents at the top of the stairs. Thinking quickly, the elven Warden carefully aimed and fired a scattershot into the group of attackers around Alistair and Wynne, stunning them and leaving them open to the warrior's attacks. Counting on Alistair to wrap that up, he turned his attention to the Crow archers, hoping to pick them off one at a time. He managed to take one down with a well-aimed shot to the throat, but before he could fire off another, two of the archers, exchanging their bows for daggers, charged towards him, likely trying to pin him in the tiny corner beside the stairs.

He heard Zevran savagely shouting in Antivan, up on top of the stairs, but he couldn't spare a moment to glance up; he drew back on his bow, aiming at the assassin approaching from the left, and –

The only warning he had was the sudden slack in the bowstring. _Someone's cut it–!_ He spun to the side desperately and felt a dagger slide down the back of his brigandine in a near miss: his unseen assailant had been aiming for the back of his neck. His bow now useless, Alessar swung it like a quarterstaff, trying to buy a second to draw his daggers, but the assassin was expecting such a move and blocked the clumsy strike with his forearm, pushing the bow aside and following through with a stab aimed at Alessar's ribcage.

The Warden let the dragonthorn bow fall from his hands as he dodged the rapid strike, and realized, with a shock, that his opponent was Taliesen himself. That was probably the reason for Zevran's outburst, and for a distracted moment, he heard the other elf cursing in at least three languages, a far cry from his usual battlefield bravado. The two assassins who had been advancing on Alessar now seemed engaged with keeping their former comrade out of the fight, but he knew they wouldn't last long against Zevran's wrath.

Alessar's more immediate concern, however, was how long _he'd_ last against Taliesen. He quickly ducked down, scooped up a handful of dirt, and flung it at the Crow's face, all in one smooth motion, but once again, Taliesen had anticipated the move and turned his face away, managing to protect his eyes from the shower of dirt. Before the elven Warden could step aside, the assassin caught his wrist and planted a hand behind his elbow, driving him to his knees with the sudden application of pressure. Knowing he was in danger of having his shoulder dislocated, or worse, Alessar flicked his free hand sharply, bringing one of his hidden blades into play, and stabbed at the hand on his elbow. The awkward attack barely drew blood, but it surprised Taliesen enough to let the Warden break away and finally draw his daggers.

"Pickpocket tricks from a Grey Warden?" the Crow sneered, flexing his injured hand slightly. "I guess they really are scraping the barrel here in Ferelden, aren't they?"

Alessar bit back a retort; he had to make one final offer before there was no turning back. "You don't have to do this," he said urgently, keeping his blades at the ready. "You can walk away, just as Zevran did."

"Zevran is a fool," Taliesen spat. "You _can't_ walk away from the Crows. Even if you defeat us here" – that was simply realism at this point, since the Wardens' party was gradually overwhelming the assassins – "he _will_ be hunted down. There is nowhere in Thedas where they can't find him."

"He won't be alone." Alessar's words were a vow, even if the other elf wasn't there to hear it.

"You sound _far_ too sure of that, Warden," the human assassin grated. Without further warning, he sprang at Alessar, unleashing a rapid flurry of strikes that the elf barely managed to block. Unsurprisingly, the Crow's fighting style was similar to Zevran's, but he was noticeably stronger, and his attack had forced Alessar further into the corner. Not wanting to get pinned, the Warden made a couple of jabbing feints to force Taliesen to back off, and tried to dart around the man's offhand side, but he underestimated either the assassin's reach or his speed – a sweeping kick tripped him up, and he rolled desperately to avoid the twin stabs aimed at his head.

"_No!_" Zevran's voice rang out from nearby; Alessar had no idea of the state of the battle at this point, and didn't know what had caused that shout of horror. His focus had narrowed to this duel; in his mind he was fighting to save _two_ lives, his and Zevran's, and he could not afford to lose.

Taliesen was poised for another strike at the downed Warden; as he closed in, Alessar kicked out with his left foot and forced the man's arm wide, but that left him open to the Crow's offhand attack. Viciously, the man drove his dagger into Alessar's left knee, drawing a howl of agony from the Warden. He could barely think straight for a moment around the pain, and he half-expected to feel an Antivan dagger plunge into his throat, but the blow never came.

A sharp grunt of pain cut through his momentary daze, and he looked up quickly to see Zevran standing behind Taliesen, his amber eyes blazing. As Alessar followed the line of Zevran's arms, he saw that the elven assassin had driven both daggers home in his former partner's back, stabbing upward through the man's ribs. As the Warden stumbled to his feet, the other elf pulled back, letting Taliesen fall to the ground.

Alessar shuddered and looked away. Had there really been no other choice?...

Zevran looked at the body of his friend for a long moment before turning to Alessar, concern in his eyes. "Your leg... can you make it back to Wynne?"

Alessar glanced around; the battle was over, and Alistair and Wynne were headed towards them anyway. He gingerly tried putting weight on his leg, and would have fallen over if the other elf hadn't caught him quickly.

"Hm, just as well she's coming here, then. Are you all right, otherwise, _cielo_?" Zevran was still looking at him worriedly. Of course, that was normal, if he had been hurt in a fight; the Antivan elf had a fiercely protective streak, and was quite unapologetic about it.

"I'll be fine, I think, that's the worst of it... What about you?" The Warden held onto his lover's shoulder for support, but Zevran didn't seem to mind.

"Nothing worth noting," the assassin reassured him with a dismissive wave. "I... am sorry I couldn't reach you faster," he said softly as the other members of their party approached.

"It's not _your_ fault–" Alessar began.

"I should have known he'd go after you himself, _cielo,_ that's the kind of person he is. ...Was." His expression was blank for a moment. "At any rate... I should have stayed at your side."

"Zevran," the elven Warden murmured, "it doesn't matter. _We won._"

"So we did," was the thoughtful reply.

After a heavy dose of healing spells from Wynne and some careful bandaging from Zevran, Alessar felt ready to try to make the walk back to Arl Eamon's estate. It wasn't too terribly far, and from this point, they could avoid any other potentially dangerous alleyways and back streets, even if it took a little longer. As they set off, however, it soon became quite clear that the injured Warden couldn't keep up with even a relatively slow walking pace. Zevran finally spoke up when he and Alessar caught up to the other two for the third time.

"Perhaps you two should go ahead. We're not so very far now, after all; the palace district is only a few streets away, yes?"

Alessar nodded wearily in agreement. The effort was becoming exhausting, and knowing that the others had to wait for him made him subconsciously try to move faster than he really should have.

Wynne pursed her lips, looking as if she wanted to disagree, but couldn't find a good enough reason to do so. "What if there are more of these Crows about?" she asked finally. "Reinforcements?"

"It would not be like Taliesen to divide his forces, my dear Wynne," Zevran replied, shaking his head. "If his attack failed, we would be on guard against a second attempt – as we're discussing now. If there is to be another attack, it will not be today, and I honestly doubt there will be at all."

"And why is that?" Alistair asked, a hint of suspicion in his voice. Alessar guessed that the straightforward warrior still had misgivings about Zevran's personal connection to Taliesen.

The elven assassin smiled thinly. "As I said, Taliesen would not divide his forces. He was always an all-or-nothing sort of strategist, you see. And he _certainly_ wouldn't want to fail in an attempt, only to have some mere fledglings come along later, clean up, and take the credit for the job."

"But... aren't they all working for the same cause?" the templar asked in consternation.

Zevran let out a bark of derisive laughter. "These are not Grey Wardens we speak of, or a king's army, friend Alistair. At the end of the day, every Crow is out for himself." He turned to Alessar, almost as if seeking confirmation that he himself wasn't seen that way, and the Warden gave him a small smile of encouragement. With a slightly lighter countenance, the assassin continued, "But we are wandering, now. I think we will be safe enough for the short time we will be alone. The sun is still in the sky, after all."

It wouldn't be for much longer, but in theory, the closer they got to the palace district and the Arl's estate, the safer their surroundings would be. Wynne glanced at the sun's place in the sky, perhaps coming to the same conclusions. "Very well," she said with a sigh. "Alistair, if you'll accompany me..."

The human Warden still looked unsure, but Alessar waved him away tiredly. "Go on, we'll be fine. Slow, but fine."

"All right, all right, if you insist..." Alistair gave Zevran a warning look, which Alessar interpreted as _he'd better make it back in one piece or I'll have your hide,_ before joining Wynne. The two of them soon disappeared amongst the numerous city folk going about their everyday business along the street.

"Shall we?" Zevran murmured, turning to smile at the other elf. Alessar nodded, and they resumed their slow pace, Zevran acting as a subtle crutch.

They walked in silence for several long minutes; the Warden was bone-tired, and he imagined that Zevran had a lot on his mind that needed to be sorted out. He was surprised, therefore, when the assassin finally spoke up.

"So... Taliesen is dead, and I am free of the Crows," he said quietly, as if continuing a line of thought out loud. "They will assume that I am dead along with Taliesen – that I joined him against you – and as long as I do not make my presence known to them, they will not seek me out, I think."

That certainly hadn't been Taliesen's opinion on the matter, but Alessar couldn't know which of them had the right of it. He thought Zevran had a point, though – as long as he did not draw attention to himself, the Crows would have little to go on to find him. He wondered, with a sudden chill, if the other elf would take his new freedom to heart and leave. The Warden couldn't, wouldn't stop him, but the thought of it... Out loud, he asked, "So what does this mean for you?"

Zevran's musing reply was an echo of his lover's thoughts. "I suppose it would be possible for me to leave, now, if I wished. I could go far away, Orlais perhaps, or Tevinter, or Rivain, somewhere where the Crows would never find me."

Alessar didn't trust himself to speak; he simply concentrated on setting his feet down carefully, one step at a time. This went on for several minutes until Zevran abruptly halted; the Warden, robbed of his support, staggered slightly as he took a half-step forward. The other elf hastily helped him regain his balance, and as Alessar looked up, he saw why they had stopped – they had reached the estate's courtyard at last.

It seemed that the guards had been warned of their arrival; two of the Arl's men came to escort them to the house, and there was no further opportunity for private conversation until the Warden had been seen to his rooms. Once they were finally alone again, Zevran firmly shut the door before joining Alessar by the window.

The Warden leaned against the sill, looking out at a part of the city he'd never been too familiar with. The only elves that came here were servants, of course, and he'd never had such a desirable job. Perhaps he might have, eventually, if he hadn't killed an Arl's son...

He looked up as Zevran stepped up next to him and slid an arm around his waist. It was more of a supportive gesture to someone unsteady on his feet than a possessive one, although if he was to be honest, he wouldn't have _minded_ a little possessiveness. It would have been... reassuring.

"I spoke of leaving," the assassin murmured, looking at Alessar solemnly. "But I think... that I could also stay here. I made an oath to help you, after all." His free hand drifted up to the earring he wore in his right ear, a noticeably fidgety gesture for someone who so often held back his true feelings. "Saving the world seems a worthy task to see through to the end, yes?"

_I can't beg him to stay. Even if I_ want _to. This is his first chance to decide for himself._ "If... you want to go, Zevran..." Alessar said haltingly, his heart in his throat, "you can go. I told you I wouldn't hold you to that oath."

Zevran looked taken aback at this. "But this is what I am asking you. Do you want me to go?" His amber eyes sought answers in Alessar's expression, just as his voice asked for certain words to be spoken. "Do you need me here?"

_He wants to be wanted._ The thought had never occurred to Alessar quite so clearly as it did now, and as he turned it over in his mind, a hundred tiny hints fell into place.

"Of course I want you to stay," he said finally, feeling free at last to make the same unspoken claim on Zevran that the assassin had unwittingly laid on him months ago. "I... do need you here, Zevran. With me."

"Then stay I shall," the other elf said softly. He finally smiled as he leaned in closer, his lips brushing against Alessar's ear as he spoke. "I am with you to the end."

.fin.

* * *

Author's Note:

Great googly-moogly, that took _forever._ This one is a monster, but all of the logical breaking points made for some very small sections... so, apologies for the length! And with this being posted, I'm all caught up with my other archive (LiveJournal)... at least, with the main storyline. While I'm working on Knot 15, however, I may toss up some shorter stories/one-shots. :)

I had a lot of help of both the direct and indirect sort with this chapter. Thanks to sami jo, barkingM1, and senorfuzzylips for some sound structuring advice, **Sresla** for assistance with staging the fight scene (do check out his work here on the site!), and the peeps of the Zevran thread on Bioware Social, in general. Love you crazy people!

(On a side note: Yes, I know in game that you can go from the market district directly to Arl Eamon's estate, but c'mon, where's the fun in that? XD Besides, I would expect an Arl's place to be in the southwest corner of the city with the rest of the nobles...)

Dragon Age: Origins and all characters here besides Alessar belong to Bioware and their wonderful writers.


	15. A Gift Unlooked For

**Well-Woven Net, Knot 15: A Gift Unlooked For**

Alessar had managed to survive a briefing on the Queen's house arrest, a semi-formal evening meal with the Arl, a long discussion afterward about the current political climate among the Bannorn, and another dose of healing magic, this time from Morrigan; now he sat on the loveseat by the fireplace in his room, leg stretched out on the cushions, feeling a bit like a lazy cat as he basked in the heat. It felt good for his knee, though, which still ached a little, despite the healing. He hoped it was the sort of pain that went away with a good night's sleep – this was no time to be in less than perfect condition, especially if they were to be breaking into the Arl of Denerim's palace in the next few days.

_At least I know my way around in there. Somewhat._ The memories were still bitter, a year later. Now there was a different Arl, and a different woman to be rescued, this one a Queen – certainly more important than four elven women from the Alienage, kidnapped from a wedding...

A knock on the door, the cadence familiar, broke him out of his dark thoughts. "Come in," he called, unwilling to rise from his seat if he didn't have to.

Zevran, still dressed in the rich red tunic and deep brown breeches he'd worn to supper, stepped inside and quietly closed the door behind him. "I appreciate your trust, my dear Warden, but it is rather unsafe just to let people enter at will, no?" His smile made the scolding less harsh. "Especially here in Denerim."

"Hmm, I suppose you're right," Alessar admitted as the other elf came over to join him. "It's just that I was expecting you..." He started to move out of the way, but Zevran caught his foot, maneuvered around to sit down, and let the Warden's leg rest across his lap.

"Expecting me, hmm? Perhaps I should be a bit more capricious – I would so hate to become predictable," the assassin said with a teasing grin.

"I think 'predictable' is one of the last words I would use to describe you, Zev." Alessar's answering smile turned into a wince of discomfort as Zevran tentatively rubbed his knee.  
"Ah... it still hurts, then?" The Antivan elf frowned in concern. "I thought the magic would have taken care of it by now."

"It's mostly fine," Alessar hastened to reassure him. "It just aches a little. Down to the bone, I guess. I'm hoping some rest will help..."

"Hm, perhaps. I suppose it was a very deep wound, wasn't it." Zevran's tone made his words more of a comment than a question, and his face was pensive as he gazed into the fire.

"I... I'm sorry, Zevran," the Warden said softly, sitting up and pulling his leg out of his companion's gentle hold. "About Taliesen."

The look the other elf gave him was strangely wary. "There... is no need to apologize, _cielo_. When Ignacio said that he had taken the contract... I knew it would come to this, eventually." He shook his head.

"Would you..." Alessar hesitated; he wasn't sure at all if Zevran would want to talk about his old friend, particularly with him, given the circumstances. Still, he could tell that it was weighing on Zevran's mind. "Would you like to talk about it?" he offered tentatively.

The assassin smiled faintly. "Thank you for the offer... but no. Perhaps on some other occasion, we can go through a bottle of fine Antivan brandy and I will tell you of some of the terrible things we got up to," and his use of the word _terrible_ seemed to be humorous, "but not tonight, I think."

Alessar nodded, looking down, then back to the fireplace. Neither of them spoke for several long minutes, just soaking up the heat of the fire and the comfort of each other's presence.

"It occurred to me that I did not thank you," Zevran murmured, breaking the silence. After talking about Taliesen, this seemed rather out of place, and the Warden turned to look at his lover questioningly.

"You have freed me from the Crows," the assassin clarified, "and yet I did not think to thank you for it."

"Zevran," Alessar said, blinking in surprise, "there's... there's no need." And in his mind, there truly wasn't. For one thing, it wasn't as if Taliesen had given them any other choice... But besides that, he couldn't comprehend _not_ trying to break the Crows' hold on the other elf. It wasn't a favor; it was simply something that had to be done, period.

"No, there is a need," Zevran insisted, looking at him steadily.

"I could do no less for a friend, Zev, let alone..." Did he dare say it? "...Let alone someone who's... more than that to me." He hedged at the last minute, not wanting to use the word "love" and bring the conversation to a crashing halt. Despite Zevran's vow to stay by his side, Alessar still wasn't entirely sure it was safe to use that word. Part of him wondered if it ever would be.

"Ah..." The assassin seemed to have a sudden thought or realization at Alessar's words. He was quite still for a moment, which Alessar recognized by now as a sign that he was steeling himself, and then he drew some small item from his belt pouch.

"It seems like an appropriate moment to give you this," he said quietly, holding out whatever it was.

Alessar held out his hand tentatively, and felt something small and smooth pressed into his palm. "You don't need to give me anything," he protested, his fingers closing over the rather peculiar shape.

"I may not need to," Zevran said earnestly, "but I want to."

A little startled by the turn the conversation had taken, Alessar finally looked at what he held in his hand. It was an earring, a deep blue teardrop-shaped gem capped with gold – precisely like the one Zevran wore. Eyes widening, he looked up at the assassin, wondering if the earring he held was the mate to the other, but the Antivan wore no earring at all now. This had to be the very same one.

"I acquired it on my very first job for the Crows," Zevran said lightly, not quite meeting Alessar's eyes. "A Rivaini merchant prince. He was wearing a single, jeweled earring when I killed him." The other elf tilted his head reflectively. "In fact, that was just about all he was wearing... But at any rate, I thought it beautiful, and I took it to mark the occasion." He finally looked at the Warden and smiled, but the expression seemed more reflexive than genuine, a shield for his true feelings. "I've kept it since then, and... I'd like you to have it."

At first, Alessar was appalled; this was a _trophy_ from Zevran's first assassination? He had always tried to be non-judgmental about the Antivan's past – it wasn't as if Zevran had really had a choice about killing, if he wanted to live – but giving such a thing as a gift...

But as he thought about it a little further, he realized that Zevran had very few things to give. He had, by his own admission, come to Ferelden with virtually nothing, and most of what he had acquired since then had been necessities like blades and armor, either taken as loot or paid for with the group's shared funds. This earring was something he had worn for years, and if he had kept it so long, it must have become something dear to him. For him to give such a cherished thing to Alessar...

The Warden realized that he must have been staring at his lover, because the other elf looked away uncomfortably. "Don't... don't get the wrong idea about it. It's really the least I could give you, in return for my freedom," he said deprecatingly, waving a hand as if this were some small matter. "Feel free to sell it, wear it, whatever you'd like."

Alessar frowned uncertainly. To give such a gift as a simple thank-you seemed... well, excessive. Unless he was so utterly overwhelmed with the idea of freedom, but... given what had just been said earlier, about being more than friends...

"This is... simply a gift in return for helping you?" the Warden asked slowly, trying to keep his voice neutral.

"It's..." Zevran shifted uncomfortably. "It's meant a lot to me, but so have– so has what you've done for me. Please, just... just take it."

Alessar heard the slip, heard what Zevran almost said – what he _refused_ to say. And while part of him understood, another part of him, a part growing louder by the moment, was tired of these evasions. Tired and _hurt_. He didn't expect the assassin to... declare his undying love for the Warden in front of the Landsmeet, or some such thing, but for him to not even be able to let himself say something as simple as, "you mean a lot to me", when he clearly felt that way...

"Zevran..." he began, then stopped as he heard the slight tremor in his voice. _Can I do this?_ Should _I do this? _ He swallowed hard, trying to anticipate the other elf's reaction to what he was about to do. _He's anything but a fool... he_ has _to understand what I mean by this._ "It... it would mean something more, to me," he finally said, meeting Zevran's amber stare. "If it doesn't mean the same to you, then I... I can't accept it."

He reached for Zevran's hand to give the earring back, and he could tell, by the slightest twitch, that the assassin nearly jerked his hand away. He couldn't bear to look up as he gently pressed the earring into the other elf's hand, but he knew those bright eyes were burning into him.

Numbly, Alessar closed Zevran's fingers around the earring and let go, dropping his hands into his lap. _What happens now...?_

"You are an _infuriating_ man to deal with," Zevran breathed. The irritation in his voice made the Warden's shoulders hunch instinctively, as if expecting a blow. "We pick up every little bauble and trinket and bit of treasure that we come across, but you won't take this?" He rose from the loveseat, and Alessar finally looked up at him. He almost wished he hadn't; the other man was staring at him with wide-eyed disbelief, and something else – anger, probably. "_Fine._ If you do not want it, you shall not have it."

"Z-Zevran..." Alessar stammered, taken aback by the assassin's vehemence. He had no defense against Zevran's ire – he'd never needed it. "I only–"

"No, my dear Warden, I think enough has been said tonight." Zevran's voice still carried a note of vexation, a hint of ice, but now he sounded more weary than anything else. "More than enough." He tucked the earring away again, not looking at the other elf. "I should let you rest; you will need your full strength in the days to come, yes?"

_He's leaving. But of _course_ he's leaving, after that, you idiot!_ Feeling an unpleasantly familiar sense of panic, Alessar staggered to his feet, catching Zevran's arm before he could move away.

"... _Cielo,_" the assassin began, again, sounding more tired than angry.

"Zevran, _please._ Please don't..." Alessar trailed off, unsure of exactly what he meant to say, but he was already deeply regretting his refusal of the gift. Surely, he could have gotten his point across in some other way? But it was far too late now.

The other elf looked at him for a long moment, his eyes traveling over Alessar's face as he seemed to read every nuance in the Warden's expression. Alessar wondered worriedly what he saw, or what he _thought_ he saw.

Finally, Zevran brought one hand up to Alessar's cheek, his other arm steady against the Warden's hold, a bit of subtle support for the injured elf. "I will see you in the morning, _cielo,_" he said softly before giving the other man a chaste kiss goodnight, his lips brushing lightly against Alessar's. "Rest well." He pulled away carefully, again, mindful of Alessar's unsteady balance, and met the Warden's eyes briefly before turning and walking to the door.

Alessar, paralyzed by anxiety and remorse, could only watch him leave in silence. Once the door closed, he managed to slowly sink into the loveseat again, and for a long while, he simply sat there, gazing into the flames. The warmth of the fire still felt soothing on his wound, but it did little to alleviate the cold, sick feeling in the pit of his stomach.

* * *

Zevran pulled the heavy oak door shut and leaned back against it for a moment, closing his eyes.

_What does he _want_ from me?_

His momentary anger and hurt had already faded, although they still simmered below the surface; it would be easy enough to stir the welter of negative emotions into a boil again, he knew. For the moment, though, most of what he felt was a sort of helpless frustration, which was not an emotion the assassin was overly familiar with.

Cursing under his breath in his native tongue, he pulled away from the door and made his way to his own small chamber, moving quickly and quietly by habit. He startled a chambermaid as he rounded a corner, causing her to let out a little scream and nearly drop her armful of linens, but he barely paused for more than a mumbled apology before continuing. Fortunately, he encountered none of the other members of the company before he reached his room; most of them would have recognized how out of sorts he was, surely, and he didn't want to be seen this way. There would have been questions, uncomfortable ones that he didn't necessarily have answers for.

Once in the safety of his room, Zevran peeled out of his fine clothes, setting them aside to be put away neatly later. His motions were automatic, hands opening fasteners and laces without the guidance of conscious thought. _How could he_ refuse? _I never would have offered the thing if I really thought he'd... _He did not like to make wagers he thought he wouldn't win; he would never have shown so much of his hand if he'd thought he'd be rebuffed in such a way.

Well, no, that wasn't exactly right – he hadn't been _rebuffed_, exactly. He knew Alessar felt... strongly for him, and the Warden had just said as much moments before, so he had assumed that, at the very least, the other elf wouldn't laugh him out of the room for trying to offer such a thing. He had expected appreciation and acceptance, or perhaps a tentative refusal – at first – based on the sheer value of the earring; Alessar's Alienage-honed tastes clearly didn't run to fine gems, after all. But a refusal because of _sentimental worth?_

The assassin retrieved the earring from his belt pouch and looked at it in the warm light of the single oil lamp in the room. He was forced to ask himself: what would prompt him to give up something he'd worn as a badge of pride for more than a decade? He'd _never_ been moved to such a gesture before, and that realization, once Alessar started pressing him for an explanation, frightened him. He'd fumbled for plausible reasons, trying to avoid looking any deeper into his own motivations, but the Warden, curse him, hadn't accepted that.

_"It would mean something more to me?" More than_ what? _More than all of the things I can't say? _No, he realized, that was Alessar's point. _To him, it's worth more than those few things I _can_ say. _

_Maker's Breath._ Zevran set the earring gently on the bedside table and snuffed the wick of the lamp before settling on the bed, his hands clasped behind his head as he stared up at the rich fabric draped over the canopy. _Is that what he wants from me?_ Words? _Anyone can say words and not mean them, make promises in the dark and break them at morning's light._ But that wasn't fair, either. He knew, more or less, what Alessar wanted to hear, but he didn't know if he could bring himself to face it, let alone say it out loud. It went against everything he had ever been taught, the cold practicality that had been his way of life until recently.

And yet, even if he couldn't face it... _it was there._ He knew it, Alessar knew it, even Taliesen had seen it. And that _inevitability_ was the most frightening thing of all.

As Zevran's mind began to spin itself to exhaustion, trying to find some way out of this maze he now found himself in, sleep seemed very far away.

.fin.

* * *

Author's Note:

Ah. Finally reached one of, if not _the_ most crucial moments in this story :) I hope I've done it justice.

Many thanks to **Raidho **and **Sresla **for beta'ing this chapter :3 Check out their stuff as well, they're both brilliant X3 Also, much love to the Zevran fan thread on Bioware Social for the epic discussions on the earring and how/if it should be accepted or not. ;D

Dragon Age: Origins and all characters here besides Alessar belong to Bioware and their wonderful writers.


	16. An Unforgivable Trespass

**Knot 16****: An Unforgivable Trespass**

The first thing they did to Alessar was cut off his hair.

One of the armored guards kicked the Warden's legs out from under him while another pair forced him to his knees. The first guard produced a short, sharp knife, and for a horrified moment, Alistair thought they would slit the elf's throat then and there. Instead, the man grabbed a handful of Alessar's black hair and sawed at it with the knife, which seemed ill-suited to the purpose. That apparently didn't bother the guard, who seemed to relish the disheveled mess he made of the Warden's hair as he continued his task with an unpleasant grin on his face.

Alistair watched helplessly from the confines of a cell, pressing against the bars. "Why are you- what are you doing? Maker's Breath, you already have us locked up, leave him alone!"

"Aww, 're you sad about his pretty hair, boy?" the guard with the knife crooned mockingly. "You wanna souvenir?" He tugged harshly at one of Alessar's forelock braids and hacked it off, then tossed it at the cell, where it struck the bars floppily and fell to the floor.

Not knowing what else to do, Alistair snatched up the braid, scowling darkly at the guards, who laughed at him. It wasn't as if the elf had ever seemed particularly vain about his hair, but he took care of it, at least, and seeing this done to him unnerved Alistair. What reason could there be for them to do this?

_Humiliation?_ he wondered. The guards had been calling Alessar _knife-ear_, _gutter trash_, and any number of other slurs as they'd been marched through the halls of Fort Drakon. They probably thought the elven Warden was acting above his station; maybe this was supposed to bring him down a peg.

The ex-Templar could only hope that was the explanation. He didn't want to even think about any "practical" reasons their jailers might do such a thing, reasons having to do with simplifying executions or the like...

Glancing up, he met his fellow Warden's eyes for a moment, and the apprehension he saw there made him want to curse. _Why_ had Alessar thought surrender was a good idea?

The other man had explained his decision, as quickly as he could, when they were cornered by Ser Cauthrien: getting Anora out took priority, because she and Eamon together might be able to sway the Landsmeet against Loghain more thoroughly than either acting alone. And if they were able to do that, perhaps the Orlesian Wardens would be allowed into Ferelden before it was too late. In addition, Riordan had been freed, and he certainly would know more about the Blight itself than the two young Wardens. Alistair was politically valuable for his heritage, and Alessar had wanted him to go free as well, surrendering only himself, but Cauthrien had insisted that both Wardens be taken, and Alistair, trusting in his friend's gamble, had gone along. It hadn't seemed so bad, at first; Cauthrien herself was short with them, but not abusive. But once they'd been brought to the cells of the fort...

They'd been stripped of their armor and weapons, of course, and then marched to a dank cell, identical to all the rest. Alistair had been shoved inside, but the guards held Alessar back for this "special" treatment.

The elf didn't struggle - maybe a wise decision with a knife so close to his head - but his expression held more alarm than Alistair had seen on his face in a long time. Was he that bothered about his hair, or was something else wrong? Or was it just this place? It was hard to not feel on edge with the occasional tortured scream in the background. Would they be the ones screaming, soon?

He hadn't entertained the notion seriously before now, but he felt himself going pale at the thought. He'd certainly weathered a lot of pain up until now, and so had Alessar, but deliberate torture? Did _anyone_ really deserve that? Even a murderer?

It was almost impossible to believe that soft-spoken Alessar, who preferred to make allies instead of enemies, had murdered a noble, but he had not denied the charge Cauthrien had leveled against him: _"The murders of Teyrn Rendon Howe and Bann Vaughan Urien."_ The Uriens had been the previous Arls of Denerim, hadn't they? A Bann would be the Arl's eldest son. How in the world had Alessar accomplished such a thing, and more importantly, _why?_ There'd been no time to ask until now, and Alistair was beginning to realize that there was a chance there never would be.

There was an ugly pile of shorn hair on the floor now, as the guard finished his work by lopping off Alessar's other braid. "How d'you like that, knife-ear? Maybe oughta shave you bald, get rid of the lice, eh? Little rat-eating piece of trash." The other two guards hauled the Warden to his feet; he looked odd, to say the least, with his hair so messily cut, and the dark tattoos on his face seemed that much bolder without the usual curtain of black hair obscuring their lines. Without his armor, he looked more or less like any poor wight from the alleys of an alienage, which, Alistair figured, was the point.

"C'mon then, you stupid bastard." The men began to haul Alessar away, and he turned back and looked at Alistair, the fear bright in his eyes now for all that he held his tongue.

"Wait, where are you taking him?" Alistair demanded, gripping the bars.

"Interrogation," the leader barked. One of the guards holding the elven Warden laughed, an ugly sound. Hearing that reply, Alessar balked for a moment, planting his feet on the floor, but the lead guard gave him such a blow to the face with his armored fist that the elf seemed to sag in his captors' arms for a moment.

"_Stop!_ Take me instead!" Alistair shouted, cursing as the guards ignored him and dragged his friend down the stairs, out of sight. There was a rack down there, he knew, and probably any number of other horrible tools as well. And while he certainly wasn't eager to be tortured, he was fairly sure he could handle more abuse than Alessar. _Interrogation?_ What secrets did they have? They hadn't made their moves in Denerim particularly stealthy so far, until today. Was it about the fight with Howe, or the supposed murder of this Bann Vaughan? He was sure Alessar would tell them what they wanted to know without torture... but they seemed intent on hurting him, and that thought kept the former Templar feeling cold and helpless.

He strained to hear what they might have been doing to his fellow Warden, but it was difficult to tell; he heard the occasional _smack_ of flesh being struck, but the sound was infrequent. Maybe Alessar was not answering some of their questions in a way that they liked. Alistair could occasionally hear the lead guard's voice raised, although he couldn't really make out the words, but after a while both the blows and the shouting ceased, and the only sounds he heard were occasional coarse laughs.

He never heard Alessar's voice, and he wondered, fear wrenching his gut, if they'd killed the other Warden. It seemed pointless to do so, but then, none of this afternoon had made much sense.

_If they've killed him..._ Alistair couldn't even bear to finish the thought.

As he gazed blankly towards the stairs, it took him a while to realize that two of the guards had come back up, marching Alessar between them once again. He had been stripped of his clothes, and his pale skin was splotched with horrendous marks that were going to become full-on bruises in a few hours. Silently, the men brought him to Alistair's cell and shoved him in, sending the elf sprawling to the floor. Alistair quickly knelt down to help him, but instead of trying to rise, Alessar simply lay there until the guards left; the slight movement of his chest with each silent breath gave the former Templar only a small bit of reassurance.

"Alessar?" he whispered urgently, one hand on the other Warden's shoulder. "Are you all right?"

Strangely, the elf did not meet his eyes, and still made no move to get up; he simply curled into a fetal position and did not reply.

"Hey..." Alistair was at a loss in the face of Alessar's uncharacteristic behavior. What could he do? He couldn't heal his friend's injuries, couldn't break them out of here - of their entire company, Alessar was the master lockpicker, but he had no tools to work with, the guards had made sure of that when they were first brought in. He was sure the rest of their group would come for them, some way or another, but would it be soon enough? If the guards had decided to single out the other Warden for this kind of treatment...

_Well, there's one thing I_ can _do right now..._ Quickly, the man shucked his rough-spun shirt, holding it out tentatively. "Here, I don't need this, and you definitely do..."

The elf was still unresponsive, so Alistair settled for draping the shirt over him for the sake of modesty, if nothing else. "Hey..." he tried again, unsure what might rouse the other Warden from his stupor. "I'm sure they're coming for us, you know. Arl Eamon won't let this pass, and... well, Zevran wouldn't leave you here, would he?"

He said the last bit lightly, a weak attempt at cheer, but it seemed to have the opposite effect as the elven Warden let out a quiet, muffled sound and curled up even tighter.

_What in Andraste's name...?_ The sound had been hard to identify; it could have been fear, pain, or just general misery. But why had a mention of rescue - or of Zevran - triggered it?

He thought through everything he'd just seen and heard again; what had they _done_ to the elf? Almost afraid to look, he eyed the red welts on Alessar's body, trying to follow what had happened. There seemed to be grasp-marks from armored hands up and down his arms - unsurprising, since that was how they'd led him around. There was also a red blotch in the vague shape of a hand around his neck, as if he'd been choked. Fortunately, his breathing seemed steady and unhindered now.

There seemed to be relatively little injury to his legs, which made sense if Alessar had been standing or sitting while the guards beat him... but then the warrior noticed the edge of a mark high up on the outside of the elven Warden's thigh, almost near his hip, the rest of the welt covered by the hastily draped shirt.

_Why would..._ Not wanting to alarm the elf, Alistair didn't move the shirt, but tried to lean to see what was beneath, and as he did so, the telltale mark of a hand became clear. Someone had gripped Alessar there, or held him down, or something, but that was an awkward spot. Why-

_Oh. Oh,_ Maker. _How could they-?_ The realization hit Alistair like a sharp blow to the gut, and made him feel just as pained and sick.

"Alessar..." He didn't know what to ask, what to say. "We- We're going to get out of here. But we've got to hang on until then. All right?"

Feeling awkward and useless, and unwilling to upset Alessar further by fussing over him, the Templar simply sat next to his silent brother-in-arms, until the other Warden felt fit enough to rise or to send him away.

* * *

At some point in the night, a guard - not one of Alessar's tormentors, but someone else entirely - had walked by and tossed a bundle of fabric in the cell. Alistair had dozed off sitting up, but Alessar couldn't possibly sleep; his mind spun in useless circles, his thoughts scattered about like spilled grain. Carefully, to avoid waking up the other Warden, he rose to his feet and went to investigate the bundle, stretching his legs and wincing at the soreness as he went.

He wasn't sure if the threadbare clothes were a mercy - they were certainly better than nothing - or a further insult; they were human-sized and ragged at the hems, and their previous owner was surely dead. Still, he preferred to be covered rather than not, so he quickly pulled the clothes on, his skin crawling at the feel of the dirty fabric. He must have looked like the poorest sort of scavenger, with his ragged hair and tattered, oversized clothes. And bruises, bruises all over. Most of the hits he had taken were superficial, besides that first stunning blow to his head, and they had bloomed fairly quickly. But it certainly wasn't the bruises that hurt the most...

He returned to Alistair, taking some small comfort in the other Warden's presence, and laid back down, now somewhat more protected from the cold stone floor. Sleep was still nowhere near, and though he lay there with his eyes closed, his mind would not rest. The events of the past few hours were like an open wound that his memory kept edging close to and shuddering away from. He could feel it there, but looking at it directly was too difficult, and would make it suddenly more real.

After nearly a year as a Grey Warden, fighting all across (and under) Ferelden, he thought he had come out from under the shadow of the Alienage walls. He thought he had become the sort of person his mother had wanted him to be, when she first began secretly teaching him to hold a dagger, so many years ago - a voice and a blade for the weak and defenseless, now working for a cause greater than himself. But no... he was no better than the rest of them when it came down to it, unable to fight when it had mattered most. He'd taken Nola's death too much to heart, perhaps; she'd fought her captors and been killed for it. _He_ had struggled at first, of course, and they'd held him down. Perhaps even then he could have slipped free somehow, using his elven agility to his advantage, but the knife, the same one that had claimed his hair, was pressed against his already bruised throat. He'd had no wish to die, still full of anger and hope and pride, and his sense of self-preservation told him to stop fighting, before they decided to slit his throat and make use of his still-warm corpse instead. What good was he to anyone if he died here?

He hadn't realized what surviving would feel like.

He tried to tell himself that Ferelden still needed him, still needed every Grey Warden it had, but what good could he do against the Archdemon when he couldn't even defend himself against three ordinary men? _A weakling and a coward, and I'm supposed to rouse the country against the Blight? They need a hero, not someone who'll roll over like a beaten dog and show his throat to the enemy when he thinks his life's in danger._

If the others heard about this - his immediate companions _and_ their treaty allies - they would surely abandon him. Who would flock to the banner of a proven coward when the fate of a nation was on the line? Perhaps Alistair could keep hold of their army, with help from Eamon and Riordan, but Alessar's part in it would be through. His breath caught with a quiet, pained sound as he imagined the contempt of his companions, blatant or veiled with pity according to their temperament. Alistair, Maker bless him, had shown nothing but concern so far, but given time to think it over, surely he'd realize what a fool he'd been to follow someone so powerless. And Zevran...

In the past, thinking of the other elf might have provided a balm against his pain, but today those thoughts were more like salt in the wound, a sting that only compounded the hurt.

The assassin had avoided him for most of the previous day, seemingly uncomfortable after what had happened with the earring. He wasn't cold or harsh, precisely, but he seemed determined to hold the Warden at arm's length, metaphorically speaking, at least. They had shared a couple of brief kisses, but when Alessar had shyly invited the other elf to his room for the night, Zevran had turned him away, sounding oddly apologetic but offering no real reason for the refusal.

Shaken and heartsore, the Warden had not slept well, but this morning, Zevran had acted as if nothing especially untoward had occurred. Perhaps that was only a front for the others - neither of the elves wanted curiosity or input on the matter from their companions. With the mixed signals Zevran was giving him, though, Alessar hadn't been sure how to act around the other elf, and their conversations that day had been safe, impersonal, as they infiltrated the Arl's palace. All the while, uncertainty had gnawed at him. In refusing the earring, had he truly asked too much?

_But that hardly matters anymore,_ he thought numbly. _If whatever was between us wasn't totally destroyed before, it will be now._ No doubt the other elf would be disgusted when he realized what had happened. The sudden renewed surge of self-loathing, combined with the fear of that inevitable separation, nearly made Alessar retch, and he forced himself to take deep breaths. Still, the sense of despair did not abate, and his thoughts continued to spiral downwards into the dark.

He must have finally drifted off at some point, because he woke up to Alistair shaking his shoulder urgently.

"Alessar! Listen! I think someone's coming, and they aren't being subtle about it..."

The elven Warden sat up quickly, listening to the clear sounds of battle several rooms away. Magic was definitely being used - he could hear the telltale sounds of ice shattering - but he couldn't be sure of who had come until-

"Ah, this really gets the blood pumping!"

Quick as a shot from his own bow, Alessar rose and pressed against the bars of their cell, eyes locked on the far doorway. Alistair wasn't far behind him.

"Zevran! Who else came, do you think? Someone's throwing magic around... Wynne, or-"

A familiar peal of dark laughter echoed in the corridor.

"Morrigan," Alistair sighed. The two Wardens waited in tense, anxious silence as the battle moved closer, the ringing of blades growing ever louder. The sound of Zevran's voice, so confident, even amused, as he fought to free them sent waves of conflicting feelings through Alessar: hope, anguish, longing, fear. But regardless of his apprehension, every part of him was focused on that doorway, waiting for the other elf to walk through.

And finally, he did, holding a key on a chain in one hand and a dagger in the other. Morrigan appeared behind him as he quickly surveyed the room; his eyes focused on the two Wardens even as Alistair called out to catch the rescuers' attention. In a matter of moments, Zevran had unlocked the cell door, and before Alessar could think to back away, the assassin had pulled him into a tight embrace, even as Morrigan's spell of healing shimmered around him.

"Ah, my dear Warden," Zevran said softly against Alessar's neck, a slight hitch in his voice as he gently ran one hand over the other elf's ruined hair. "Did you miss me?"

Caught in a fit of shuddering, the Warden could not find his voice to reply. _I missed you, and I will miss you when you turn away, when you finally see that there is nothing "beautiful" or "strong" left in me._

_

* * *

_

Zevran did not like what he had seen so far since rescuing the Wardens from their cell. He'd noticed the ugly bruises, stark on Alessar's pale skin, before Morrigan's spell had washed them away; now, even healed, there seemed to be something fragile about the elven Warden, something still injured. He was almost entirely silent as they crept through the fort's corridors, his face not so much grim - which Zevran would have expected - as expressionless. His fighting ability did not seem much hindered, at least not against these particular opponents, because his arrows and daggers struck true, but Zevran almost wished to see some spark of anger from his lover, some flash of heat rather than this strange blankness.

There had certainly been anger in him when they finally ran Howe to ground beneath the palace, earlier in the day. The nobleman had recognized Zevran from their first meeting, and had, of course, insulted his skill and his loyalty - though why he had any cause to expect the latter, the assassin didn't know. Perhaps it was simply because Howe believed that he was still on the winning side, but Zevran had learned better long ago, and judging by Ignacio's outreach to the Wardens, so had the Crows.

_"Is this how the Crows conduct their business?" Howe asked, lip curled in a sneer. He didn't seem the least bit concerned about the danger the Wardens' party presented._

_"The Warden has given me a better offer," Zevran replied coolly, standing behind and slightly to one side of Alessar._

_"I see." The noble looked between the two elves and smirked. "I suppose that's what happens when you send a knife-eared whore to do a man's work." His sharp gaze slid over to Alessar, who bridled at the insult that had been clearly intended for both of them. Zevran placed a warning hand on the archer's arm, but the Warden made no move, yet._

_"Is it- I don't believe it," Howe said slowly, peering at Alessar's face carefully. "Even badly drawn by a witness, those marks are unmistakable - you're the one who had the entire palace guard in a row last year, aren't you?" He let out a bark of surprised laughter. "And yet, here you are. Such high standards the Wardens have."_

_Zevran knew of what Howe spoke, but Alistair and Wynne did not; they watched the nobleman warily as he slowly smiled. "I don't suppose you've been back to your dear Alienage, have you? Perhaps if we hurry it up here, you can be reunited with your family..." Howe stepped back and unslung his wicked-looking hand axe. "...On the midden heap, with the rest of the garbage."_

_It was only Zevran's slightly faster reflexes that allowed him to grab hold of Alessar before the Warden charged at the noble in blind fury._

That rage seemed to have drained completely from Alessar, which the Antivan elf found worrisome. After being imprisoned and tortured, anger would have been justified, but the Warden simply seemed... empty. But there was no time to talk, to investigate further; they were bent on escaping the fort as quickly as they could.

It was just before daybreak when they finally defeated the guards at the massive door and made their exit. Alessar paused on the threshold, his eyes wide as he realized they were truly free of the place, and for a moment, Zevran thought he might break down in relief. But when the assassin placed a gentle hand on his shoulder to urge him along, he shook his head, as if to clear it, and the blank mask slid down again.

It was deeply disturbing, and dark suspicions began to form in Zevran's mind as the small group crept through the pre-dawn shadows of Denerim. _I will find the root of this,_ cielo, _whether you will speak of it or no,_ he vowed silently.

.fin.

* * *

_Author's Note:_

Well, a new chapter has been a long time coming, and here it is in all its vicious glory. :o Thanks very much to **Sresla** for beta'ing this rather difficult chapter.

Knot 17 should be along fairly soon, and in the meantime, I'll be posting some short in-betweens... the ones that aren't too dirty to post here. ;)


	17. The Unseen Net

**Knot 17:** **The Unseen Net**

All that Alessar wanted, once they returned to Arl Eamon's estate, was to bathe and sleep, wishes that he quietly imparted to Zevran as they entered the palace proper. The assassin left Alistair and Morrigan to fend off questions and walked the elven Warden to his room, giving Anora's handmaiden a venomous glare when the woman tried to object.

"We do not have time for _joyous reunions,_" Erlina protested, her emphasis on the last two words making her meaning clear. Zevran stiffened at the implication, but he bit his tongue and continued to lead Alessar down the corridor, guiding the other elf with a light hand on his shoulder, rather than on his lower back as he might have done before. He'd tried that earlier, and Alessar had flinched away from his touch almost imperceptibly, despite the leather armor he wore.

"He's been _tortured,_" he heard Alistair snap with surprising heat, "and you _might_ recall that he only surrendered for Anora's freedom!" There was a pause - probably the Templar trying control in his anger - before he resumed in a calmer voice, "The Landsmeet's not for a few days; whatever it is Eamon and the Queen want to discuss can wait a few hours." The woman's reply was quieter, and Zevran couldn't make it out, but he didn't much care - he fully intended to defend Alessar's rest with his blades if he needed to.

When they entered the residential wing, he flagged the elven chambermaid who tended the rooms there and asked her to prepare a bath for Alessar. She looked at the Warden with wide eyes, no doubt taking in his shorn hair and vaguely unwell look, and dashed off to fetch water. As he pushed open the door to the other man's room and gently propelled him in, he wondered in the back of his mind if the woman was someone Alessar knew from the Denerim Alienage. "Now... out of your armor, _cielo,_ and those horrible rags, too."

The Warden nodded slightly, but did not meet Zevran's eyes as the assassin stepped back. "I... Would you mind finding me something to eat?" he asked quietly.

Zevran cursed inwardly, but managed to smile at his lover. _He does not want me to see him. What would I find, with the bruises healed away? Dried blood? Other things?_ "Of course not, my dear Warden." He knelt to assist Alessar with his boots and greaves as the other man sat down wearily on the couch in front of the fireplace. "Breakfast should be in the making, yes?" As the Antivan elf rose to his feet, he cradled Alessar's face between his hands and bent to plant a kiss on the top of his head. He longed to do more than that, but the other man's sharp intake of breath told him that he had probably been wise to restrain himself. "I will return soon, _cielo_."

The Warden nodded in acknowledgment, eyes still downcast. Seeing him this way made Zevran's usually cold anger spark into flame, and he regretted killing the guards in Fort Drakon so cleanly and efficiently - someone deserved to _suffer_ for this. Keeping a tight rein on his emotions, he left the room, forcing himself not to hurry on his errand. He had no desire to leave Alessar's side right now, but he thought he understood why the other man wanted him gone, at least for a little while, and so he would comply with that unspoken wish.

Of course, Zevran was still operating on an assumption, but everything he'd seen so far only served to further convince him that he was correct. Perhaps he could find out the truth of the matter from Alistair later; he highly doubted Alessar would raise the subject himself, and the assassin would not press him on it.

It was not difficult to wheedle some piping hot bread, butter, and a bit of honey - a combination that was one of Alessar's favorite indulgences - from the cook, once he clarified who it was for; rumor had spread among the servants by now about the Wardens' rescue, and, one would assume, the state the elven Warden had been in when they returned. A wedge of sharp yellow cheese and an apple were added to the plate, and Zevran's gratitude was genuine as he thanked the normally irascible cook and her helpers and ducked out of the kitchen.

By the time he returned to Alessar's room, the tub was full of tepid water, and the warming stones were baking in the fireplace. The other man had stripped off his gear and clothing and now sat wrapped in a blanket, gazing into the flames. A quick glance around the room told Zevran that the Warden had already cleaned up somewhat using the small washbasin, and again, that raised his suspicions. The two of them were past any shyness on the Warden's part; what had he felt the need to hide?

The assassin forced himself to smile cheerfully as he presented the plate of food to his lover with an exaggerated flourish. At any other time, the sight of the other man bundled in only a blanket, the pale skin of his shoulders and collarbones exposed, would certainly have been something to smile at, but Alessar's bearing, hurt and withdrawn, stole away any lightheartedness that came to mind.

Zevran itched with the need to do _something_, so he busied himself while Alessar ate, first cutting the apple into thin, pretty slices, and then rummaging in the Warden's stash of dried herbs for a few chamomile flowers for a tisane to help the other elf sleep peacefully. He was prone to strange nightmares in the best of times, brought on by the Joining that had made him a Grey Warden, but after this...

Alessar ate slowly at first, then with somewhat more enthusiasm as the bread and honey worked its magic, just as Zevran had counted on. A little bit of comfort from one's favorite food could at least provide a brief respite from the kind of non-physical pain the Warden was suffering. That was all the assassin could do, at the moment - try to ease his lover's pain - and it frustrated him. He had, as he often joked, a very tactile nature, and that seemed to be precisely what the other elf didn't want right now. Whatever help Zevran gave him would have to be a little more indirect... but he was prepared for that, too.

After checking the progress of the warming stones, he added them to the bath, then turned to Alessar. "I'll be back in a moment while this heats up, _cielo._"

The other elf frowned slightly in curiosity, but nodded. "All right..."

Zevran ducked out of the room and quickly returned to his own, rummaging through his collection of small glass vials. Many were poison, of course, but he kept a few other useful things on hand. As Alessar himself said from time to time, poison-making was simply a specialization in herbalism, and it was natural to learn some of one while studying the other. It was an interest the two of them had in common, although their areas of expertise were quite different.

_This is edging more into _his_ specialty,_ Zevran thought as he pulled out several vials. It was for Alessar's sake that he kept a small collection of plant oils to begin with. As an assassin, his use for such things had been limited to seduction via massage - either of targets, or, occasionally, lovers, inside and outside of the Crows. Accordingly, the oils he'd used were the richer florals with relaxing, aphrodisiac properties, rather than these healing herbs. His Warden, though, had little need for aphrodisiacs; with the weight of a country on his shoulders and his dreams haunted by monsters, Alessar needed serenity and rest, and Zevran had made his purchases accordingly.

When he returned to the Warden's room, he found Alessar checking the temperature of the water. Apparently it wasn't hot enough; he shook his head and looked at Zevran with a small, wistful smile. "Too impatient, I suppose."

"_You?_ Impatient? Never," the assassin replied with a little grin. "But that gives me a moment for these." He held up the vials, knowing he'd capture Alessar's attention.

"What... are those?" The other elf's voice was more wary than it would have been days ago, and Zevran told himself firmly that the mistrust wasn't directed at _him._

"A bit of a treat for your bath, _cielo,_" he said reassuringly. "This, you are familiar with," he said as he opened the first vial and handed over the stopper for sampling.

"Lavender," Alessar said immediately, as the Antivan elf let a few drops fall into the warming water. The herb was as close to a cure-all as ever existed, and well-known for its calming properties and as a sleeping aid.

"Of course. What of this one, do you know it?" the assassin asked, closing the first vial and opening another.

"A flower, but this was made with the entire plant, leaves and all..." The other elf seemed to be searching his memory. "Geranium?"

"Right you are, my dear Warden." The plant's oil was believed to restore balance and inner peace, something Alessar needed dearly right now. "But I believe this last one may prove a mystery to you." Zevran handed the third stopper to the Warden, who sniffed it carefully and frowned in thought.

"That's... odd. It's a fruit, isn't it? Almost like orange, but much sharper."

The Antivan elf chuckled. "I suppose it is unfair for me to make you guess, when you do not have such fruit here in Ferelden. You are correct, of course; we call it _pomelo_, and it is kin to the orange and lemon." The large yellow fruits with their pale pink flesh seemed to be unobtainable here, and he had haggled vigorously with an Antivan merchant to get a small amount of the oil. It was known as an uplifting scent, used for easing pains of the heart, and was recommended to combat grief and depression; he'd never felt a need to use it before now, and he hoped it would help. "It is meant to lift the spirits," he offered as a simplified explanation while he added a few precious drops to the water.

Alessar nodded, making no objections to Zevran's prescription. That the normally self-effacing Warden did not protest being fussed over was a clear sign that he truly needed help, in the assassin's mind, and he fully intended to do everything he could. Seeing the other elf like this was deeply painful in a way that he couldn't quite put into words.

The water was finally hot enough, and now Alessar was less reticent, shedding his blanket and stepping into the bath with no apparent hesitance. Zevran saw nothing alarming on the other elf's body; he must have successfully cleaned up whatever he'd wanted to hide before. The assassin refrained from offering to help the Warden with his bath - it was certainly not the time for such games - and instead occupied himself with finding clean clothes for Alessar and then inspecting his finely-made drakescale armor for damage, absently humming an Antivan courting song under his breath.

Eventually, the quiet splashing sounds from the bath ceased, and Zevran's humming was the only thing breaking the silence. After several minutes of this, he glanced up to see Alessar dozing in the cooling water.

"_Cielo?_" he ventured, wondering if the Warden was truly asleep, but there was no answer, and he chuckled quietly. _Not at all surprising, but I suppose I'd best get him out of there._ He managed to rouse Alessar long enough to help the man dry himself off before falling into bed, where Zevran had already tucked a bit of dried lavender into the pillow's casing. It seemed that the chamomile tisane would not be necessary.

When he gently pressed his lips to Alessar's brow, the other elf did not flinch away, and offered only a sleepy, wordless murmur in reply.

* * *

Zevran left Alessar's room only briefly, to remove his own armor and change out of his working clothes. After that, he spent some time on mindless, tedious tasks: mending leather, rubbing beeswax into the Warden's fine longbow, and the like, waiting for the first inevitable attempt to interrupt Alessar's rest.

He almost didn't want to think - about what had happened to his lover, why it pained _Zevran_ so much, or why he was reacting the way he was. He had been caring for the Warden without stopping to consider the whys and wherefores, simply reacting to to Alessar's needs. He was hurting, so Zevran worked to soothe those hurts - it was as simple as that. And while that wasn't precisely a _new_ thing between the two of them, it came into sharp focus now that the assassin had nothing else to occupy his mind.

It went against all the rules that had been so thoroughly drilled into him. If a fellow Crow in your cell was injured, perhaps you brought them back to a safe haven, _if_ you could do so without endangering yourself. If a partner was captured, you extracted them only if and when the Master told you to, and for the Master's reasons: to preserve a useful tool, to prove that the Crows would not be caged, or any number of other cold, logical purposes. You did _not_ devise a hasty plan to lie your way into a heavily guarded fortress to rescue a lover. It would have been unheard of, and severely punished - if you survived. For that matter, it would have seemed foreign to care enough for someone to put yourself at so much risk to save them. But while Eamon and Anora, who could be seen as the "Masters" in this situation, had certainly agreed on the necessity of a rescue, it had been _Zevran's_ plan, and Zevran's goading that had put that plan into action.

_They say Fortune favors the bold, and she did,_ he thought soberly. His strategy had been flimsy at best, and had relied far too much on improvisation, but charm had always been his specialty, and it had served him well last night. That had made things easier, but he had been prepared to fight through the entire Drakon garrison, if it had come to that, with or without Morrigan's help.

_Utter foolishness,_ he would have said a year ago. But today, he knew he'd do it again without hesitation. There was simply no room for a Crow's hard logic to interfere.

That thought stilled him for a moment. _No room where, Zevran?_

Was it really so difficult to say? Even in his own head? _No room in my thoughts, no room in my_ heart. _There. I have said it._

Except he really hadn't, not when it had counted.

Alessar's refusal of his earring had opened up a door, and the assassin had spent most of the day after that trying to grasp what lay on the other side. He still was, even now, and with greater urgency. The very real possibility that the Warden might have been killed before a rescue could even be attempted had shaken Zevran to the core. They had faced death before, frequently, but after everything that had happened in the fight with Taliesen...

_I killed Taliesen to save him, without even stopping to think._ And he didn't regret it, either. He regretted the fact that his oldest friend had forced the issue, and he regretted the man's death in and of itself, but not the reason for it. Again, if he had to relive that moment, he would make the same choice, without question.

_I suppose that is why I felt the need to give Alessar the earring,_ he realized at last. _What I feel for him... is not some simple, transient thing. It is not a passing fancy that fades away once its pleasures have been tasted._ His life would have been so much simpler if it had been just that, a bit of intrigue that, once explored, no longer captivated. But captivated he was - though the Warden had helped to free him from the Crows, he had snared the assassin in a net no less difficult to escape.

_But, truly, which one of us wove this net, and which one of us was trapped in it?_ he thought. The answer, of course, was that they had trapped each other, hopelessly tangled together in the weaving. He was just as guilty as Alessar, putting forth more effort than he could ever remember using in order to win over the shy Warden. That fact alone should have warned him long ago that he was on a dangerous track, but he had gone on, willfully blind to the fact that he was losing at his own game.

_We have both lost, and we have both won. He conceded defeat when he asked me to stay by his side._ The memory of that moment, Alessar's blue eyes so very _serious_ as he met the Antivan elf's gaze, brought on a strange, sweet sort of ache. _Why could I not do the same, when he asked it of me?_

Of course, he knew _why_ - because he had been thoroughly trained not to. But that was no longer an acceptable excuse.

The quiet knock at the door was an almost welcome interruption from his thoughts. He was looking forward to telling off whoever had come looking for Alessar, but held his tongue when he opened the door to find Alistair in the hallway, accompanied by the elven Warden's mabari, Ovden. The hound pushed past Zevran to check on his master, and the assassin hoped that he had enough sense not to wake him.

"A-ha, I figured you'd be here," Alistair said in greeting. "Is he...?"

The Templar's reaction to finding him there had made it sound like he was actually looking for the Antivan elf, but for what purpose? "He is sleeping," Zevran informed him. "And shouldn't you be, as well?"

"I had a bit of rest, but..." Alistair's expression was one of obvious worry. "Is he going to be all right?"

Of course, he had to know that his fellow Warden's injuries had been healed already - which meant that he knew something else was wrong. This was as good an opportunity as any for Zevran to confirm his suspicions, and he did not hesitate, stepping out into the hallway and closing the door behind him. "Alistair," he began in a low voice, meeting the tall Warden's gaze to silently demand the complete truth. "_What did they do to him?_"

"I... I'm not absolutely sure," the Templar said haltingly. "They took him away, and I couldn't see or really hear what happened." He looked down, ashamed of his helplessness.

"'Really' hear? You did hear _something?_" Zevran asked sharply, with little patience for the other man's hedging.

"I heard _them_, and I heard them hitting him... I never heard a sound from him," Alistair murmured. "And they didn't say a word when they brought him back to the cell. Neither did he."

The warrior's state of tension told Zevran what the man thought had actually occurred, but he asked anyway. "So what do you believe happened? A simple beating?"

"No, I think it was something... worse than that." The Warden glanced up at Zevran warily, probably trying to determine if the elf truly understood what he meant. "There were... marks on him, when they brought him back..." He shut his eyes tightly for a moment, hands clenched at his sides, as he dredged up the memory. "And he was so..." He struggled to find a word. "So _quiet_. Like... like a candle that was blown out, just, _whff_, suddenly nothing..."

_An apt description,_ the assassin thought bitterly. _An extinguished flame._ "I see." _I never should have agreed to simply let him surrender. This... this should not have happened. Especially not to _him.

"He... he hasn't said anything about it to you?" Alistair seemed surprised, which annoyed Zevran; the Templar clearly knew nothing about the aftermath of these kinds of abuse.

_Ah, that is unfair of me. Why_ would _he know anything of such matters?_ But it still rankled him a little, and in the back of his his mind, he wondered if it bothered him simply because he wished, deep down, that Alessar _had_ confided in him. Pushing that thought away, he said out loud, "No, he has not. Would _you_ speak willingly of such a thing?"

"...Probably not," the warrior admitted, his expression chagrined.

There was a minute of awkward silence, but the fact that Alistair didn't excuse himself and leave told Zevran that the man must have wanted something else, and he waited somewhat impatiently to find out what. Finally, the Templar looked up at him, clearly uncomfortable.

"Zevran... Do you know anything about this nobleman that Cauthrien said Alessar _murdered?_" he finally blurted. He looked as if he dearly wanted some assurance that it had all been a lie or a misunderstanding - and, the assassin supposed, in some ways it was.

"I do," he replied grimly. "I do not wish to speak of things he would prefer to leave unsaid, but I will say this: if what he told me was true, the man richly deserved it."

Alistair looked at him steadily, gauging his sincerity, then finally nodded. "All right. I... I know he's never been eager to harm anyone, let alone _kill_ anyone, so it just seemed kind of... alarming." He shook his head. "I just... I worry that's going to be thrown in our faces now, if it's common knowledge. Even if the man deserved it, the simple fact that he was a noble and Alessar is an elf... The banns of the Landsmeet could be turned against us with that."

Zevran nodded, a little surprised by the other man's political concerns, but if they were going to put him forward as King, he would have to understand the way these games were played, even if he didn't like them. "It is something to keep in mind. Unfortunately, I think this means Alessar will have to speak of it, and not just to us; if the matter is brought up in the Landsmeet, he may have to answer to the entire assembly." The thought of the elven Warden having to explain the circumstances of his cousin's rape - especially in light of last night's events - to a possibly hostile audience left Zevran cold.

And then that line of thought led him somewhere truly dark. "Alistair." He paused, pondering the true weight of his next question. _I would not have thought this sort of thing would be done in Ferelden, but after what we have just seen, in the Arl's palace and in Fort Drakon..._ "The guards who... tortured Alessar. Did they say anything to indicate they _planned_ to do it? Or why?"

"_Why?_" Alistair seemed surprised by the question. "I don't know, they kept insulting him for being an elf... I didn't make a connection, but..." The Templar frowned. "Alessar seemed more afraid than I'd expected. You know how he is, especially when he thinks he's doing the right thing, but yesterday... Maybe he caught on to something I missed. But he didn't _say_ anything." His fists clenched at his sides. "If I'd realized..."

Zevran didn't feel up to consoling the Templar at the moment; he'd spent everything on Alessar. But he made an attempt, anyway. "You would not have expected such a thing."

"No, I wouldn't," the other man agreed angrily, "especially since we surrendered peacefully. Cauthrien was... well, I don't know if I'd say _respectful_, but she wasn't rude. The guards at the fort, though..."

"So Cauthrien did not give them any particular instructions?" Zevran knew that prison guards could be quite depraved, and were capable of any number of abuses of their charges, but he couldn't help but wonder, now, if Alessar's treatment had been on someone's orders. What better way to defeat the Warden at the Landsmeet than to make it so that he would not, or could not, speak his piece, or even attend? They would not need to kill him, or even physically torture him - all they needed to do was break his spirit. Even if Alessar's opponents were accused of having him tortured, it could oh-so-easily be blamed on the individual guards - who were almost certainly already dead after the rescue and would not be able to testify otherwise. If Zevran's suspicions were correct, it was a disgusting tactic... But then, so was stealing a blood mage from the Templar who had captured him, and setting him up as an assassin by preying on a mother's fears for her child. After _that_ situation had become clear, the elf was ready to believe anything.

Alistair was looking at him with dawning comprehension that rapidly shifted to anger. "No, Cauthrien said nothing. But you think this was _ordered_ by someone?"

"I have no evidence," the elf said darkly, "but I will not rule out the possibility."

"And who else would be in a position to order this kind of thing? _Loghain,_" Alistair spat. "He's already proven that he's willing to sacrifice Wardens on the battlefield, or lock them up and torture them..." The Templar began to pace, his steps confined to the small area between Alessar's door and the end of the hallway. "This would just be one more thing to make him pay for."

The man's voice was beginning to rise, and Zevran did not want him to attract attention, especially to this particular topic. "He is perhaps the most likely candidate, _if_ this... atrocity... was done on orders. But..." the assassin continued, lowering his voice, "at the moment, it matters little." He glanced towards the door, as if he could see Alessar sleeping soundly on the other side.

"Yes," Alistair agreed with a sigh, the anger visibly draining from him. "What matters is that he's all right." He looked up at Zevran worriedly. "Do you think he will be...?"

"I do not know. He has a strong heart and mind, we all know this, but I do not think he has been tested like this before." He frowned at Alistair suddenly. "Have you told anyone else what happened?"

"No!" The warrior shook his head vehemently. "I didn't think he'd want me to..."

"No, he wouldn't," the assassin said with certainty. "Good. If people were to start treating him differently..." he trailed off.

"I see what you mean. Well, I have no intention of saying anything," Alistair reassured him. "I just..." He made a helpless, frustrated gesture. "I wish I could do something." As he lowered his hands, his left hand brushed against his belt pouch, and he let out a startled oath.

"Blast, I almost forgot." The man fished into the pouch and withdrew something, like a dark bit of rope, and as Zevran took it between his fingers, he realized what it was and closed his eyes. "They... they threw it at me, while they were cutting, and... well, I didn't want to just leave it, but I don't know what to do with it, so... I figured maybe you should have it," the warrior said awkwardly.

"Thank you," the elf managed to say, his hand clenching around the narrow plait of hair. What good was it to anyone? It wouldn't help Alessar at all. But he understood Alistair's impulse; _he_ certainly would have taken the braid, if he'd been in the same situation. It seemed unthinkably callous to do otherwise.

"I... I guess I'd better let you get back to him," the Templar murmured. "But let me know if there's something I can do."

"Just do as you have always done, Alistair." Zevran smiled wearily at the tall Warden. "Be his friend."

The Templar nodded, concern in his eyes as he backed away. "Take care of him, Zev," he said quietly.

"As best I can," the elf promised before stepping into the room and shutting the door behind him.

With a soft sigh, he walked back towards the window, where the midday light shone in. Ovden, who had been lying quietly next to Alessar's bed, rose and padded after the assassin, nosing at the plait of hair he held. Zevran looked at the great hound with a sad smile and patted him with his free hand. "You know quite well whose this is, don't you? And that it shouldn't be here in my hand."

He looked at the braid, torn. On the one hand, it felt wrong to keep something of Alessar's that had been stolen from him in such a way, and if he simply wanted a lock of the other elf's hair, surely it would be freely given. But on the other hand, to simply get rid of the thing seemed... cold, somehow.

_But what could I do with such a weighted keepsake?_ he thought. _This is no trophy, after all._ As he glanced around the room for some hint or inspiration, his gaze landed on Alessar's daggers, their baldric slung over a rack meant for swords, and an idea took root in his head. _Ah. Yes, I think that would be appropriate._

He commanded Ovden to watch over his master for a few minutes and quickly went to his room to retrieve some of his supplies for the maintenance of his weapons. This would not be a particularly difficult task, but he would do it properly or not at all. Once he returned to Alessar's chamber, he set up his workspace on the small writing desk near the window and settled into the narrow chair in such a way that he could easily see both the sleeping Warden and the work in front of him. Ovden, deciding that whatever Zevran was up to was not interesting enough to watch, retreated to Alessar's bedside again. The dog seemed fully aware that something was greatly amiss, and his bearing was sad as he turned in his habitual circle before lying down.

Hoping he would not regret what he was about to do, Zevran drew his fine black dagger, the Rose's Thorn, from its sheath at his hip. Alessar had gifted it to him in Orzammar, just before they had left to return to Redcliffe, and it had proven to be an excellent blade, just as fine as its reputation advertised. He examined the hilt carefully; like with most bladed weapons, the grip was wrapped, this one with thin black leather. With the help of one of his smaller knives, and a good deal of patience, he peeled off the leather and set it aside to soak in water for the time being. Beneath the leather, the hilt was wood, wrapped tightly with narrow cord. With this base to build on, Zevran's idea seemed feasible, so he set to work quickly, not wanting to be interrupted in the somewhat finicky task ahead of him.

He unbraided the plait with great care and took up about half of the hair, leaving the rest bound with one of the Warden's familiar dark blue leather ties. Dividing the lock of hair he held into two, he twisted them tight and fastened them as bands around the corded hilt, using leather glue to secure them. Once covered over with the thin leather, these risers would add just a little more grip, and certainly wouldn't raise any questions, or eyebrows. When that was done, he drew the now wet leather around the grip, gluing it with care. To keep the covering tight, he then wrapped thin cord around the entire thing, to be left until both leather and glue were dry.

As he worked, he was unavoidably reminded of the Crows' habit of taking trophies as talismans. The assassins tended to be a superstitious lot - even if most of them would never admit it. Prizes taken from their marks were visible signs of prowess, of course, but beyond that, they all looked for luck, and a reminder of a successful mission could inspire confidence in a new task. In this case, though... the reminder of what had befallen Alessar would serve as a very different sort of inspiration.

_Now you will guide my hand,_ cielo, he thought as he set the dagger close to the fire to dry faster. It was likely that no one would notice the change, and even if they did, he made such modifications to his weapons frequently. No one else would know what was there now, under the leather, but he would, and that was the important part, was it not? _I failed you once, and I will not let myself do so again. This will remind me._

With his task accomplished, he carefully wrapped the rest of the plait of hair in a square of silk, then tucked the bundle into his belt pouch. Perhaps he would find some other meaningful use for it, but even if he did not... he knew he couldn't simply discard it. _Perhaps it will be my burden to bear, for allowing this to happen._

.fin.

* * *

_Author's Note:_

Oof. Sadly, this isn't ALL of what I wanted to cover in this part. ;) I had to reserve the rest for the next Knot, but perhaps that's for the best. This part of the story is the first time I've had so many Knots so close together in time, but I suppose, in the game, your time in Denerim is pretty tightly packed too, eh?

Apologies for the couple of... hmm... craft-related tangents; the first (aromatherapy) seemed to fit into how Zevran was engaging Alessar's senses, and the second (DIY swordgrips!) was... well, an explanation for the sake of clarity more than anything. XD; I actually pondered taking the entire first part out and leaving it as a separate strand, but I thought the illustration of Zevran's care for his Warden was important. Hopefully it all makes sense together, or will soon...

Mucho thanks to **Sresla** for putting up with reading this and commenting... a few times. XD;

Dragon Age: Origins and all characters here besides Alessar belong to Bioware and their wonderful writers.


	18. An Unspoken Vow

**Knot 18:** **An Unspoken Vow**

When Alessar woke, he felt oddly remote and fuzzy-headed, as if he had been ill. After a moment of trying to remember why, the past day's events came back to him in a violent rush, and he rolled over quickly, leaning over the edge of the bed and fighting down the wave of nausea that had swept over him. In a few moments, he felt more steady, and he slowly sat up and looked around for his clothes.

To his surprise, Zevran was still there - although he had fallen asleep in his chair, leaning onto the bed with his head pillowed on his arms. The sight might have made the elven Warden smile at some other time, but now it just filled him with a dull ache, a feeling of loss for something that wasn't gone yet, but soon would be. How much longer could he hide the truth?

He rose from the bed as carefully as he could, trying not to disturb Zevran's well-deserved rest, and pulled on the comfortable old leather breeches that had been left out for him before walking over to the washbasin. It had been cleaned and the pitcher of water replaced while he slept, so now he filled the basin again, thinking that perhaps a few splashes of cold water on his face might clear his head a little. As he bent closer to the basin, however, he paused as he caught sight of his own reflection. This was the first time he'd seen the damage done to his hair, and he had a moment of real shock as a stranger looked up at him from the water. He closed his eyes for several heartbeats and took a few deep breaths, letting it sink in that the "stranger" was _him_. Once he had calmed slightly, he leaned over the basin, hands planted on the tabletop on either side of the bowl, and regarded this unfamiliar Alessar.

Though the water's mirror wasn't the clearest, the look of exhaustion he bore was easy enough to see. _I look like an alienage beggar,_ he thought. _Daring to hope for nothing besides a bit of food for today, and maybe somewhere out of the weather to sleep._ Of course, he wasn't in such dire straits, at least not for the most basic elements of survival, but as for his needs beyond the physical...

"_Cielo?_" came the soft call behind him, that familiar, comforting voice saying that word that was only for him. Alessar felt a tingling heat in his eyes and quickly ducked his head, clenching his eyes shut and trying to fight back the tears that threatened to fall. _Maker. Have I not proven myself weak enough?_

He heard Zevran rise from the chair, and turned to glance at the assassin over his shoulder. "I didn't mean to wake you," he said in quiet apology.

"And I didn't mean to fall asleep, so we are even, yes?" Zevran said with a small smile. He looked truly worried, which, until today, had been a rare expression on his handsome face. "Have you had enough rest?" He joined Alessar by the vanity, bringing a blanket to drape around him.

"I don't know... it feels unnatural to sleep into the afternoon, and my head feels a little strange." Instead of allowing himself to be folded into Zevran's embrace, the Warden took the blanket and wrapped it around himself.

The Antivan elf frowned at this, though he did not comment on it immediately. "I meant to offer earlier, but you were so very tired," he began. "Would you like me to..." he hesitated, as if unsure of how Alessar would receive his proposal. "I could try to neaten your hair somewhat, if you would like."

Alessar's hand went to his hair instinctively, and it was impossible not to wince as he felt the raggedly cut locks. "I... I don't know. I don't really want it any shorter..." he said quietly, not meeting Zevran's gaze. The shorter it was cut, the longer it would take to grow back... But on the other hand, he needed to look at least somewhat respectable if they were going to be meeting with banns and the like.

Of course, for him, at least, that was a big "if". He was still waiting to be told that his presence would not be required at the Landsmeet, or anywhere, for that matter. _Although I suppose I'm one more set of hands against the Darkspawn. That much, at least, I'm still good for... I think._

"I understand, _cielo,_" Zevran was saying, his amber eyes watching Alessar intently. "But perhaps I could make it look a bit less..." The assassin paused for a suitable word.

"A bit less like someone hacked it off with a dull knife?" the Warden supplied, his voice flat.

"...For lack of a better phrase, yes. It was only an offer," Zevran said cautiously.

Alessar knew that if any of their other companions had spoken to the former Crow with the same tone he'd just used, they would have received the sharp edge of the Antivan elf's tongue, perhaps blunted with humor, but pointed all the same. He was obviously giving the elven Warden some leeway, maybe out of pity, but at the moment, Alessar almost _wanted_ Zevran to get angry, to push him even further away. Maybe antagonizing him would make things easier.

Except... just the memory of Zevran's flash of anger the night Alessar had refused his gift was enough to bring a lump to the Warden's throat. _I can't. I can't bear to have him hate me._

"I'm sorry, Zevran," he murmured, meeting the other elf's eyes only briefly before lowering his gaze again. "I... yes. If you don't mind, I'd appreciate it."

The assassin nodded, then smiled slightly as he reached out to gently tilt Alessar's head up. Once their eyes met, Zevran slid his fingers in a caress from the Warden's chin along the line of his jaw to his ear. The other elf simply looked at him for a long moment, and Alessar nervously wondered what he saw. What if he could just _tell_ what had happened, without being told? The thought was frightening, mortifying, and yet... if he knew already, and was still here... what did that mean?

Whatever Zevran saw didn't keep him from pressing his lips to Alessar's, a chaste kiss that nevertheless sent his heart racing. "I will return in a few minutes, then, _cielo,_" the Antivan elf promised, backing away with a little grin, well aware of the effect the kiss had on the Warden.

Or at least, the _physical_ effect. That familiar surge of desire felt... _unclean,_ in a way Alessar had never experienced before. He shivered in disgust, rather than pleasure, but Zevran, walking to the door, did not notice.

As the assassin opened the door, Ovden pushed past him and bounded over to his master, his docked tail wagging furiously.

"Ah, apologies, Ser Hound," Zevran said gravely. "You must have been waiting for some time." He looked up at the Warden with a slightly sheepish grin. "I let him out of the room earlier in the day to take care of his business, but I apparently fell asleep before I could let him back in. Other than that, he has been here the whole time, waiting for you."

It was impossible not to be cheered a little by the great hound's loyalty and enthusiasm, and Alessar felt himself smiling as he knelt to greet the mabari at eye level. He heard Zevran chuckle quietly before he stepped out into the hall and pulled the door shut behind him.

After Ovden bestowed a slobbery "kiss" of his own on the Warden's cheek, Alessar rose and quickly washed his face before Zevran returned. His splashing in the water prevented that unpleasant reflection from returning to stare at him, and he did not linger by the basin to look for it again.

Feeling more than a little out of sorts, he wandered to the window and looked out at the city, full of afternoon bustle. It was odd, as he had said to Zevran, to wake up so late in the day, and almost as strange to not be in a hurry to either move on to their next destination or to armor up for whatever task was at hand. He knew the respite would be short-lived, but he quietly thanked the Maker for the chance to breathe. Coping with this was hard enough as it was.

Then again, perhaps distractions would have been better than all of this time to _think_...

Before he could sink into dark thoughts, however, Zevran returned, carrying a plate of food: dark bread, thin slices of ham, pale cheese, and a large cluster of purple grapes. There was enough there for the two of them to share, and Alessar realized that he was actually hungry now. He supposed that was a good sign; at least his body was trying to get on with things, even if his mind was still having difficulty doing the same.

Ovden whined in his best pathetic tone as Zevran set the plate down on an end table. The assassin looked at the dog skeptically. "I am willing to bet that someone fed you this morning, Ser Hound," he admonished the mabari. "This is for your master."

Alessar smiled slightly as Ovden ducked his head, as if ashamed. The dog came to his side and sat at heel, demonstrating his good behavior. "Maybe there'll be some scraps left," he said in a loud stage whisper, setting the hound's tail wagging again.

Zevran chuckled and beckoned the Warden over. "Come, let us have a brief meal, and then we will see what can be done with your hair, _cielo._"

* * *

It should have been calming, Alessar thought, to have someone else comb his hair. At first, the slow, steady rhythm as Zevran pulled the carved dragonthorn comb through the Warden's ragged hair had stirred up a handful of emotions and old, vague memories, all of them comforting. Every time the comb's teeth brushed against the now exposed skin of his neck, though, he was reminded why this was necessary in the first place, and he was jarred out of what would have otherwise been a pleasant lull. It had become something to be endured, rather than enjoyed.

Regardless of the fact that the Warden's hair hardly needed combing now, however, Zevran had insisted on it, saying that he needed it to lay properly to see how best to cut it. Finally, he was satisfied with how he'd gotten it arranged, and he set the comb aside and picked up the small scissors he'd borrowed from Wynne. "No quick moves now, _cielo,_" he warned with a grin. Alessar nodded very slightly in acknowledgment and then closed his eyes as the assassin moved to trim the shorn hair closest to his face.

As Zevran worked, humming under his breath, the Warden wondered at the tenderness the other elf had shown since yesterday. They had been walking on eggshells with each other up until Cauthrien had confronted the group, and Alessar had been afraid that their relationship had already been damaged beyond repair. Since the rescue, though, it seemed as if none of that strained awkwardness had ever happened.

_Maybe... Maybe it's simply because he was afraid we'd been killed, and he was relieved to find us alive,_ Alessar reasoned. _What's an earring, or words like "love", when the one you care about might be dead?_ It would have been a warming thought, and perhaps, in different circumstances, he would have been glad for this chance to reconnect, to try again. But... other things had happened in Fort Drakon, things that Zevran knew nothing about, and though he'd brought Alessar back to safety, the Warden was still staring down a dark path, one that he was certain he'd have to walk alone. And that made the other elf's kindness all the more painful to endure.

_I have to tell him,_ Alessar thought despondently. It seemed like a vast lie of omission not to. But _how?_ How could you admit to such a thing? Especially to the one closest to your heart?

Zevran was running his fingers through Alessar's hair, settling it into place, and the Warden opened his eyes to see the assassin leaning back and looking at him speculatively. "I think this is good," he said with a slight smile. "In Antiva, sometimes young poets wear their hair like this, and also those who wish to appear like poets - some women like that sort of thing, you see. Who doesn't enjoy having extravagant verses written for them, after all?" He stepped back to allow Alessar to rise from the chair if he wished. "Would you like to take a look?"

The Warden nodded, reaching up tentatively to try to feel out Zevran's work as he stood up. It seemed more tidy, less ragged and uneven, but he could tell that the other elf had tried to leave it as long as he could, in keeping with his wishes.

Trying to imagine what he must look like now, Alessar went to retrieve his pack from where it sat near the fireplace, careful not to inadvertently hit Ovden with it. The mabari had curled up on the rug spread before the hearth, uninterested in elven grooming, and regarded his master with only slight curiosity as the Warden reached inside the pack.

Alessar owned only a small mirror - to someone from an alienage, even such a small piece of glass was an extravagance - and he typically kept it wrapped up in clean clothes to protect it. It took several moments of rooting around in the pack to find it; the contents of the bag had been jumbled, probably by both the guards at Fort Drakon and later by Zevran (for vastly different reasons, of course). Once he managed to pull the palm-sized glass free, he finally got a clear look at himself for the first time since yesterday morning.

There were no apparent injuries on his face, but the look in his eyes was one of weariness and sorrow. Not a surprise, by any stretch, but between his expression and the dark circles under his eyes, he probably looked like someone in mourning.

_Like someone who's just lost a loved one,_ he thought, closing his eyes for a moment. _Lost, perhaps, but not in death..._

"_Cielo?_"

The worry in Zevran's voice made Alessar's next breath a little shaky, but he managed to smile slightly as he looked in the mirror again, concentrating on his hair this time. "It's so different," he said quietly, using that to cover his lapse. "But it looks nice, Zevran, thank you." It did look neater, although a bit shaggy compared to how most men in Ferelden wore short hair. He could understand the appeal, though; there was a sort of careless nonchalance about it, and while that really wasn't his nature, he could easily imagine a young noble sporting such a look.

"Hmm, that was distinctly unenthusiastic," the other elf laughed, not sounding offended in the least. He stood behind Alessar, close but not _quite_ pressing against him, and the Warden caught the glint of his amber eyes in the mirror.

"No, it looks good," Alessar said hastily, addressing their reflections. "I just... have to get used to it, I think."

"Ah, of course," Zevran acknowledged. His eyes disappeared from the mirror, and Alessar shivered at the kiss placed on the nape of his neck. He felt the assassin's arms begin to encircle him, and before they could tighten their grasp, he hastily stepped out of Zevran's reach and turned around.

The Antivan elf looked at him, his expression not exactly _hurt_, which Alessar had been afraid of, but questioning, concerned. _He knows something is wrong - I'm not good enough at pretending to hide it,_ the Warden thought miserably. He looked down at the floor. "You don't... have to do this, Zevran," he said softly.

There was a longer than expected silence before Zevran finally spoke. "I don't have to do _what?_" he asked, his tone neutral.

"To... to be like this," Alessar said weakly. _Can I do it? Can I push him away like this?_

"...And what, precisely, does that mean, _cielo?_" The other elf didn't sound angry, at least not yet, but his words had that slow, clear enunciation to them that usually meant that whomever he was speaking to had best answer carefully.

Alessar bit his lip. Even as he tried to distance himself from Zevran, he still feared his anger, and he could sense it there, tensed just below the surface. "I... I'm sure you have better things to do than tend to me," he managed to say. "...Not that I don't appreciate it, because I do... truly. But..."

"Why... Why would you say that?" Zevran asked, sounding truly taken aback. That hadn't been the response the Warden had expected.

_Because I'm not what you think I am. Not anymore._ But he had a handy excuse, a reason to keep the other elf at arms' length, already provided by Zevran himself. "Because... you turned me away," he said quietly, the truth and the lie in the words tasting bitter on his tongue.

The assassin closed the distance between them so quickly that Alessar didn't have a chance to move away; those familiar hands grasped his shoulders and shook him slightly, prompting him to look up. Zevran's golden gaze caught and held him, transfixed.

"_Cielo..._ Maker's Breath, I should have known..." He seemed to struggle for words for a moment, uncharacteristically at a loss. "That was for the one night, only," he said finally, shaking his head. "Not for all time! I needed to think."

Alessar stared at him mutely, uncertain now. _Think about what? About how to deal with the fool Warden mooning over you?_

He felt Zevran's hands tighten on his shoulders as the assassin took a deep breath. "I... I have been acting no better than a child, I realize, and for that, I apologize. Will you let me try to explain?"

_Oh... Maker, no._ A day ago, the Warden would have given anything to hear the rest of this; the very fact that Zevran was still here, and was having so much difficulty, should have given Alessar a glimmer of hope that whatever the assassin had been thinking about had weighed in his favor. But right now... he wanted to run away, or scream out his frustration, or weep. _Why?_ Why _did he have to change his mind after all of this?_

But he couldn't turn away. It was utter selfishness to hear Zevran out, knowing that he was only going to push the other elf away, regardless of what he said now. And it was going to hurt him as well, to hear the kinds of things he'd most wanted to hear for weeks, if not months. But he couldn't help himself, and he nodded slowly in assent.

_Or perhaps I'm completely wrong, and he's trying to let me down easily,_ the Warden thought as Zevran took his hand and led him the short distance to the window.

_Hm. This gives us both something to look at besides each other,_ he noted in bleak amusement as his eyes were drawn to the ebb and flow of the crowd, folk going about their daily errands. Zevran, however, would not be so distracted, and Alessar realized that the assassin was regarding him steadily and waiting for him to do the same. Nervously, he met the other man's gaze, and tried not to flinch at the small smile Zevran gave him.

"An assassin must learn to forget about sentiment," the Antivan elf said quietly, his tone as serious as Alessar had ever heard it. "It is dangerous, a weakness that can be used against you. That is the cold, hard truth." He tilted his head, silently asking if the Warden understood, and Alessar nodded slightly.

"We are taught to take our pleasures where we can, when life is good," Zevran continued, looking down at Alessar's hand, still held in his own. "To seek anything more than that would be... reckless." His thumb traced small circles in the Warden's palm. "I thought it was to be the same between us - something to enjoy, a pleasant diversion and little more. And yet..."

_Maker help me. I can't bear this..._ Alessar pulled away sharply, turning so that the assassin wouldn't see the sudden wetness in his eyes. "It... it can't be more than that," he forced himself to say, almost choking on the words.

Silence answered him. He took a deep breath, trying to swallow against the lump in his throat, and warily turned back towards the other elf, who was now staring at him.

"You asked for something more, two nights ago," Zevran said quietly.

_I was someone else, two nights ago._ "I... I was wrong," the Warden offered in explanation. "I..."

"_I don't believe you._"

Alessar quailed at the other elf's vehemence, and finally slipped and said more than he meant to. "I can't... I can't be like that anymore," he insisted, frustrated at Zevran's persistence, and at his own inability to let go and end this cleanly. "I'm not... Nothing's... nothing's the same anymore!"

Feeling the first tears finally spill from his eyes, he backed away again, but Zevran caught his wrist and pulled him back, trapping him against the wall with a hand on either side of him.

"_Cielo. Querido._" The assassin looked into his eyes for a long moment before raising a hand to gently brush the tears from his cheek. "_I know what happened._" His hand fell to Alessar's shoulder, holding the Warden in place as he tried to turn away in shame. "It changes _nothing_ about how I feel, do you understand?"

At first, the words did not sink in, and all Alessar wanted to do was curl up and hide. His utter failure, his cowardice, was now known to the person whose regard meant more to him than anyone's. How could it not change anything?

But then Zevran kissed him, tentatively at first, leaving him the chance to break away if he wished to, then with more urgency when Alessar finally gave in and returned the kiss. If he concentrated on the comforting familiarity of the warmth of Zevran's lips against his own, the feel of silky softness between his fingers as he slid one hand into the other elf's hair, the scent of leather that always clung to his skin... if he let those things fill his senses, he could forget about the stark stone walls of Fort Drakon, if only for a few moments. And in those few moments, he found strength again - or perhaps it was given to him, passed along in shared breaths.

Almost as if he felt the change himself, Zevran finally pulled away, meeting Alessar's eyes again. "Ever since you gave me that pair of boots," he said softly, smiling a little at the memory, "I have been nothing but confused. Everything I have been taught in my life - in the whorehouse, and among the Crows - says what I feel is wrong. And yet... I cannot help it." He spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness. "If how _you_ feel has changed, _cielo,_ because of what's happened... I understand. Truly, I do," he said gently. "But if it has not... I want... I _need_ to know if there might be some future for us, some possibility of, of... I do not know what."

He looked up at Alessar, and for the first time, the Warden saw the entreaty there, the same plea he had made to Zevran two nights ago: _Let this be something more._ "I hope so," he murmured in reply, meaning it sincerely. That hope was like a light, now, making the dark path in his mind seem so much less daunting. "That... that's what I want, too, Zevran."

The other elf looked down for a moment, as if gathering his nerve, then met Alessar's gaze with an intensity that was almost paralyzing. "I still have the earring, _cielo._" Slowly, never looking away from the Warden, he reached into his belt pouch and withdrew the thing, holding it out in his open hand. "I would like to give it to you... as a token of affection. Will you accept it?"

Feeling more than a little dizzy, Alessar closed his eyes for a moment, but that did not stop him from reaching out to cover Zevran's hand with his own, the earring between them. "I will."

He had only a heartbeat's warning, and he clutched the earring securely in his hand before the other elf pulled him into another kiss. If the earlier kiss had been a gift of strength, this one was a gift of happiness - not a boisterous exultation, but a quiet wellspring of joy that he knew he would be able to draw on in times to come.

"Zevran," he said softly when they finally parted, a little breathless.

"Hmmm?"

"I want..." The Warden held the earring up, letting the sapphire drop dangle from the post. "I want to _wear_ this."

The assassin looked puzzled for a moment before his expression cleared in realization. "Ah. Then we will fix that immediately, if you wish, _querido._ It should hardly hurt at all."

The pain wasn't of much concern to Alessar, and he nodded his understanding. Something else had caught his attention, though. "What does that mean?" he asked hesitantly.

Zevran had reached a hand to the Warden's left ear, and froze in mid-caress. "_'Querido'?_"

"Mm." The hesitance surprised Alessar, and he wondered if it was something awkward or less than complimentary. Nicknames could sometimes be strange, after all.

"It means 'dear one', and so it felt appropriate," the assassin explained with a surprisingly self-conscious grin, but his tone sounded just a tad too glib to the Warden, who was used to hearing his exaggerations and artful lies. He was certain that the word meant something else, or that there was some other significance to it, but he was just as certain that Zevran would not explain further. He'd have to figure it out some other way.

But that could wait. He didn't foresee them having much time to themselves in the days to come, and he had no intention of leaving Zevran's side this afternoon if he could help it...

.fin.

* * *

_Author's Note:_

Hmm, don't expect quick turnaround like this again any time soon. XD; I've got some things to do before I can get to the next knot, but hopefully this one will do for a while. :)

Many thanks to **Sresla **for beta'ing and putting up with my badgering and overly long explanations of things in reply. ;P

Dragon Age: Origins and all characters here besides Alessar belong to Bioware and their wonderful writers.


	19. Miracles of the Unremarkable

**Knot 19:**** Miracles of the Unremarkable**

If it had been up to Zevran, he would have sent Arl Eamon's messenger away with a few choice words, but Alessar resignedly agreed to see the arl within the hour for what was promised to be a "brief discussion".

"They need to know I'm still capable of... well, anything," The elven Warden said to him with a small smile. "I can't just stay here and hide until the civil war ends and the Blight goes away." He still looked exhausted, but in the past couple of hours the look of despair in his eyes had faded; Zevran only hoped that the improvement was not temporary.

Aside from a few minutes spent on the business of piercing Alessar's ear (the sight of that familiar sapphire dangling from his left ear was still strange, but quite pleasing), the two elves had done nothing of real consequence this afternoon. They'd spent a while on small tasks — equipment upkeep and the like — in companionable near-silence, but Zevran had surreptitiously kept an eye on the other elf throughout. When he seemed to slow down in his work and become lost in his thoughts, the assassin distracted him with small talk and innocuous questions about the city of Denerim.

Zevran suspected that the other elf would be struggling with both unpleasant memories and his own sense of self-worth for some time to come. The former was easy enough for him to understand; he had plenty of incidents in his past that had festered in his mind for far too long, especially when he was younger. After he'd been a working assassin for a few years, he'd learned how to suppress those memories, and how to distract himself with other things... and perhaps most importantly, by the time he was was twenty, it was very difficult to shock or move him anymore, to make him really _feel_anything below the surface. That might have been why what happened with Rinna had been so momentous; it shook him in a way nothing had in years, and had cut him in places he thought had turned to stone long before.

Thinking along those lines made him realize — or, perhaps more aptly, _remember_— what Alessar must have been up against. It had been years since Zevran had felt those things: the rage against the aggressor, the powerlessness, the self-loathing that came from eventually giving in because pride wasn't worth dying for... Among the Crows, of course, there was no solace to be found — how could there be, when many of these abuses came at the hands of other Crows? But Alessar was not a product of such a system, and he now bore wounds that neither of them knew how to cope with.

The Warden was strong, though, in ways that had taken Zevran some time to understand. He wasn't weak for soliciting everyone's opinions before making decisions; he had the wisdom to admit that he did not always know the best way to resolve things. His trust in others _could_have been a weakness, but the truth of it was, the only way to win the trust of others was to to give it to them in return, and this, Alessar had done in spades. His open displays of emotion didn't make him weak, even though he might have thought so at times; he used those feelings as a different source of strength, something beyond they physical to call upon when his body had reached its limit.

Given that strength of mind and heart, Zevran hoped the elven Warden would recover. The only certain way he knew how to help was to simply be there, to engage the other man when his thoughts turned dark, to listen if he felt the need to talk, or to just remind him, with gestures large and small, that there were still things to take pleasure in, to smile about. It was maddening, in a way, only being able to support his lover through such seemingly indirect means, but it was a demonstration of how much Zevran had changed since coming to Ferelden; in the past, he'd certainly never have had the patience for such a thing. Even in recent months, he might have fled the silence, the awkwardness, the dredging up of old memories. But now, there was no question; he would stay by Alessar's side for as long as he was wanted.

With that in mind, he shouldn't have been surprised when he found himself reluctant to let Alessar go on his own to meet with Eamon. It was a ridiculous sentiment, since the arl's chambers were only a few yards away, and the other elf would probably be safer there than anywhere else in the residence. A little disconcerted by his own protectiveness, Zevran made only a token offer to accompany the Warden, who gave him a soft smile and shook his head.

"I'll be fine, Zev," he murmured, "and I'm not entirely sure Arl Eamon wanted anyone else there besides Alistair. But, you know, if I'm not back in a little while, feel free to barge in." This last was offered with a hint of a grin, and Zevran chuckled as much in pleasure to see such an expression on Alessar's face as in real amusement.

"Very well, _cielo_. I do know where you keep your lockpicks," he said easily. They shared a brief kiss before the Warden slipped out, and then Zevran was left to his own devices. From past experience, he expected this meeting to take more than "a little while", so he decided to head to the market district in the meantime for a few errands. Perhaps a stop by the Crows' stall was in order; they were dealing in politics now, and poisons were always handy in these situations, whether for the politicians themselves or the guards they frequently surrounded themselves with.

_And after Taliesen's attack,_ the assassin thought darkly, _perhaps reminding Ignacio that the Warden is still in the game would not be a bad thing, either._

* * *

When Zevran returned to Alessar's room, nearly two hours later, there was no sign that the Warden had come back. Curious, but not truly worried yet, the Antivan elf stepped back out into the hallway, intending to walk the short distance to the arl's rooms, but as he turned the corner, he saw Alistair approaching from that direction.

"Ah, friend Alistair." He wondered why the young Templar trainee looked dazed. Perhaps he'd heard some unpleasant news? "Is your brother-Warden about?"

"My br— oh, right, Alessar. He, um, went to talk to Anora a little while ago. Maybe he's still there." The warrior seemed to pale further after making this explanation, which Zevran found puzzling.

"Are you well, my friend?" he asked in concern.

"Huh? Oh, no, I mean yes, I'm fine, I just, er... must have had something at supper that disagreed with me. But I'm sure Alessar's probably still talking with the Queen." Alistair's eyes darted down the corridor where both Alessar's and Anora's rooms were located. "I, um... I should be going outside, now, I think, sorry." With that, the man sidled past Zevran and headed rapidly towards the front of the house.

_Something that disagreed with him at supper? Why do I find that difficult to believe?_ The Antivan elf had seen both Wardens demolish surprising quantities of food with little prejudice as to the quality or ingredients; he couldn't recall seeing either of them actually sick from eating something, and the food here should have been much better than their usual camp fare. _Hmm. Perhaps what disagreed with him wasn't food..._

Feeling a faint sense of unease, Zevran backtracked past the elven Warden's room and paused at Anora's door for a moment to listen. The Queen was tentatively on their side at the moment, but they couldn't rule out the possibility that she might betray them to her father, and Alessar would be a key gamepiece in such a maneuver. The assassin hoped that his sometimes overly trusting lover would treat Anora with a healthy — but tactful — amount of skepticism.

It was nearly impossible to make out distinct words through the heavy oak door, but he could hear Anora and Alessar speaking at what seemed to be a normal volume, with no notes of alarm or anger. There were some long hesitations between exchanges — options being weighed heavily, or words being chosen carefully, perhaps. Whatever the topic of conversation, though, the Warden seemed to be safe. Finally acknowledging that he couldn't — and shouldn't — hover around Alessar like some sort of magical, protective shadow, Zevran sighed silently and returned to the other elf's room to wait.

He had just managed to coax the embers in the fireplace back into a healthy blaze when Alessar returned, wearing a weary expression that melted into a smile once he caught sight of the Antivan elf.

"Ah, finished with your duties for the day?" the assassin asked with a sympathetic grin, though he itched to know what those "duties" had been.

"Almost. I need to tell Alistair something quickly, but — have you eaten yet?" At Zevran's questioning look, the Warden explained, "I might as well snitch something from the kitchens while I'm out. I had supper with Alistair and Arl Eamon, but..." He smiled ruefully, knowing that the other man was familiar with his habit of finding something to nibble on after the evening meal.

Zevran couldn't have asked for a better opening. "I have, _cielo,_but I would not be averse to a snack. If you can obtain some bread, that would be ideal."

"Ideal?" Alessar echoed, raising an eyebrow.

The assassin smirked as Alessar picked up on his wording. "If I explained now, that would ruin the surprise, no?"

The enticement had the desired effect; the Warden's steps were somewhat lighter as he ducked back out of the room, his smile promising that he'd be back as quickly as he was able. Indeed, it was little more than a quarter of an hour before he returned, carrying a bundle in a linen napkin that turned out to be a boule of bread and a wedge of mild white cheese.

Zevran gestured towards one of the benches by the fire, where he had already set out a bottle of wine, cups, and a pair of table knives. Shaking his head and smiling, the Warden complied with the unspoken directive, laying the napkin and its contents out on the seat for the two of them to share; once he seated himself, he looked up at his lover expectantly.

Was it foolish, the assassin wondered as he sat down across from Alessar, one hand behind his back in an obvious fashion, to find such enjoyment in giving people gifts? The Crows heavily discouraged, even punished, such sentimentality, and before joining the Wardens, he'd never received a meaningful gift before. Trinkets meant to buy his favor? Oh, yes. But something given just to make him happy, with no strings attached? It had triggered an unfamiliar, but not unwelcome, mix of emotions when the other elf had innocently presented him with that fine pair of boots: surprise at the gesture, confusion about the intention behind it, and pleasure in the items themselves. With subsequent gifts, the confusion had waned, but the delight had never faded.

Perhaps wishing for another to experience those same feelings was part of what drove people to give gifts in the first place. The Antivan elf would certainly be glad to provide the Warden with a bit of cheer right now, at any rate, and it was with that end in mind that he'd purchased something that seemed ideal while he was at the market. With Alessar watching him intently, he finally held out the jar he'd been hiding behind his back with an exaggerated flourish.

The other elf took the jar hesitantly and tilted it as he examined the contents, eying the viscosity of the golden substance within. "Honey?" His smile, still slightly shy after all they'd been through, was worth every penny of what Cesar had extorted out of him for the stuff, Zevran thought.

"Of course, _cielo._But not just any simple honey," he warned, although Alessar was enough of a connoisseur — and an herbalist — that he'd probably notice the unique aroma immediately.

The elven Warden opened the jar carefully to take a curious sniff of the contents, then sighed in satisfaction. "Oh, that's _fantastic,_Zev. It smells like... petitgrain? Neroli?"

Zevran chuckled ruefully. He should have known better than to think he could leave the other man guessing. "You are right, of course, my dear Warden. It is orange blossom honey from Afsaana."

The mention of the stuff's origin seemed to make Alessar aware of just how precious it was; he moved to stopper the jar again, but the assassin stopped him with a light touch on his arm. "Shall we not try it, _querido?_Just a taste, at least?"

The expression that briefly crossed Alessar's face was more serious than Zevran expected, and he thought he understood what it was immediately: the realization that, with the Landsmeet quickly approaching, this might be the last chance for this kind of indulgence. He wanted to say something lighthearted to turn the mood, but found himself at an uncharacteristic loss for words in the face of the usually optimistic Warden's despondency.

Before he could gather up something cheerful to say, however, the younger elf met his eyes and gave him a small smile. "Mm, yes, why don't we?" he agreed as he set the jar down again. "Just a little."

"We shall save the rest for a suitable occasion, yes?" Zevran said, trying to coax a happier expression from the Warden and only partially succeeding.

Figuring it might be best to change the subject, he reached for the bread and began to cut it into several rough slices while Alessar split the waxy rind off of the cheese. "So, _cielo,_I understand you have met with the Queen, as well? A productive evening, I hope?" he asked as he carefully dolloped some honey onto a piece of bread and handed it to the other elf.

Alessar traded him a slice of cheese for the bread, and took a bite before replying, his eyes half-closed as he savored the unfamiliar flavor. The expression on his face made Zevran momentarily consider putting the honey to other uses, but he quickly pushed that thought away. Given the events of the past day, this was no time to entertain such notions — and even if Alessar was in a more comfortable state of mind, Zevran thought wryly, he'd probably argue against the waste of something so hard to obtain.

"Productive... yes, I'd say so," the Warden said finally. "If the Landsmeet goes as we hope, Alistair and Anora will marry."

Zevran nearly choked as Alessar let that particular fact drop so calmly. "Truly?" he managed to say after he cleared his throat. "They are now betrothed?" That would explain why the warrior had been so unsettled earlier...

"Mm." The dark-haired elf's smile was touched with a hint of sadness. "Anora will side with us in the Landsmeet, and we will advocate that she and Alistair marry and rule jointly. A popular queen and a Theirin king — Eamon and Anora agree that the scenario will have a lot of appeal to the Bannorn."

It was logical, and a neat way to formalize their tentative alliance, but it was still a surprising step. Surely Anora would have preferred to rule alone, and from what he'd seen, the Queen had no particular fondness for Alistair, but perhaps that was simply unfamiliarity on her part. As for the Templar trainee, Zevran couldn't quite suppress the thought of a virgin sacrifice. Experienced women had their charms — oh, did he know that well — but Alistair didn't seem the type who would, or _could,_appreciate that particular benefit. It seemed unlikely that either one of them had raised the possibility of marriage.

He tilted his head and regarded Alessar thoughtfully. "And whose idea was this, my dear Warden?"

The other elf looked down pensively into his cup of wine. "Arl Eamon said something along those lines a little while back... in passing, really, just a possibility thrown out during a discussion of options for the Landsmeet. But when I went to talk to Anora..." he sighed heavily. "She very much wanted me to support her, _just_her, for the throne, in exchange for her help mobilizing against the Blight. But..."

"But you cannot trust her that far," Zevran guessed.

"Exactly. Well," the Warden backtracked, "I don't think she'd turn against us entirely. She knows that Ferelden needs to act, now, to protect what we can... And she knows that for that to happen, her father must be stopped. But would she give us the help we needed now? Would she help rebuild the Wardens after this is over?" He ran a finger around the rim of his cup. "We came here to put Alistair on the throne." There was a thread of guilt in his voice as he spoke. "_He_knows what we're up against."

But, of course, Alistair had been unhappy about the idea of taking the crown for quite a while, which Alessar would know quite well. "It _is_a useful thing, having a friend on the throne," Zevran said lightly. "I take it he has accepted this plan, also?"

"Yes." Alessar gave him a small smile. "The logic is too clear, and Eamon agreed with me, although I don't think he liked that Alistair would have to share the throne. But if we turned Anora away, and she sided with her father and just tried to make him see reason..." The dark-haired elf rubbed his face tiredly, but when he lowered his hand, his eyes were unexpectedly sharp. "We _must_remove him from all spheres of influence, or he'll continue to block us. This alliance just seems like the best way to do that — and you know that Alistair would do nearly anything to take Loghain down. He's agreed to it, and we'll head into the Landsmeet with a unified front."

This firmness, this certainty, was unlike Alessar. He was capable of making weighty decisions, yes, but he seldom projected such a grim air of...

_Duty? This is the Grey Wardens' charge, is it not? To stop the Blight by any means?_Zevran reflected on how, at first, Alessar's kind, friendly demeanor had clashed with his own notions of what Grey Wardens should be like; over the past year, the younger elf had grown into his role, it seemed. It was like something from an old tale, a poor boy who had become a great knight, but while it sounded glorious and admirable in a storybook, there was something sad, melancholy, in the reality that was unfolding before him.

_Perhaps it is simply because this tale does not have an end yet,_ he thought. _How does the expression go? "The night is darkest before the dawn"? Surely, when this is all over, there will be time for lightheartedness._Trying to keep that thought in mind, he said out loud, "So, we have our arguments and our claimants for the throne. Do you trust Anora to uphold her end of the bargain? Particularly when pitted against her own father?"

Alessar nodded slowly. "She has given her word, and that is all we can ask for, I suppose. I don't know what advantage she'd get from turning on us before the Landsmeet itself — it isn't as if we have any secrets to ferret out that she can take back to Loghain," he said with a shrug. "But if she turns against us there, we could all be arrested, and..."

_And taken back to Fort Drakon._ The thought was clear as day, and Zevran reached over to take one of the other elf's hands in his own. "It will not come to that, _cielo,_" he said quietly, a promise, even if Alessar didn't understand it as such.

The Warden gave him a tenuous, grateful smile. "I don't think she'll move against us, though." He looked away for a moment, his expression difficult to read. "She told me about something I need to look into, something that may pull Loghain further out of favor."

"Oh?"

"There's... apparently something going on inside the Alienage that's creating a degree of unrest," the Warden said quietly. "She isn't sure what."

"Then we will investigate, yes?" the Antivan elf said more than asked. "And you can see your family. I am sure they will be happy to see you, regardless of the circumstances, my dear Warden."

"I don't even know if they're still alive, Zevran." Alessar's voice was soft, as if saying such a thing at a normal volume might make his fears come true. "We should have gone there first — I should never have waited this long—"

"_Cielo._ You were attacked by Crows in your first day here, spent the next recovering, and then we went to rescue the Queen. Today was spent recovering from _that._You have not exactly had a wealth of free time," Zevran pointed out gently.

"I could have gone today," the other elf said lowly, "instead of staying here and... and hiding from everything. What if what Howe said—"

Zevran reached out and pressed a finger to Alessar's lips, silencing him. "We will go tomorrow, _querido,_even if it is just the two of us, and we will find out what is happening. You must know that Howe was simply trying to provoke you. Do not give so much weight to his words."

The Warden finally met his eyes and nodded reluctantly, prompting Zevran to withdraw his hand. "I asked Alistair to tell the others — we _are_going in tomorrow," Alessar said quietly. "It was Howe who imposed the lockdown of the Alienage, and with him gone, apparently a lot of his guards have left their posts. Remember how we heard some of them complaining about not being paid?"

Zevran let out a bark of wry laughter. "How fortunate for us. We'll find the root of this problem, then, my dear Warden, and if it is something we can use against Loghain, all the better," he said firmly.

Alessar simply nodded mutely and returned to his food, finishing the honeyed bread in silence and washing it down with a last cup of wine. Zevran ate more slowly, watching as the other elf went about his nightly rituals and ablutions. He seemed to move with more surety than this morning, when they'd just returned from Fort Drakon, or earlier this afternoon; it was as if his inner insecurities were manifest in physical action, and both were gradually relaxing.

_Perhaps with the wine, he will sleep soundly tonight,_ the assassin mused, but he knew that restful sleep was always a roll of the dice, as far as the Warden was concerned. _Hmm. At least that handful of lavender is still tucked into his pillow..._

Finished with his share of the late meal, he rose and brushed any crumbs from his clothes before crossing the room to bid Alessar goodnight. The other elf's lips tasted of wine and honey, and Zevran reflexively licked his own lips as they parted.

"Certainly not a disagreeable flavor on you, _cielo,_" he chuckled. The Warden smiled slightly in reply, but his eyes seemed oddly intent, and Zevran finally noticed that the other man had not yet released him from his tentative half-embrace. "Is something wrong?"

"No," Alessar said hastily, "nothing's wrong, I just..." He looked away for a moment, seemingly gathering his nerve before meeting the assassin's eyes again. "Zevran... Would you stay?" Before Zevran could reassure him that he had no intention of leaving — had the younger man gathered _nothing_from today's events? — he added quickly, "Tonight, I mean."

Somehow, though it was entirely reasonable on this particular evening, the Antivan elf hadn't anticipated the request, and he stared at his lover for a moment, caught flat-footed. It seemed like such a small thing, and perhaps between others it would be. Between the two of them, however...

He had been taught long ago to never linger in a lover's bed; as an assassin, most of his intimate moments were spent either with marks, who were dangerous for obvious reasons, or with other Crows, who might have any number of reasons for trying to harm him, from House rivalry to mere spite. It was a needless vulnerability for no gain, save perhaps the trust of a mark. This idea was so deeply ingrained by now that he had difficulty even imagining sleeping beside someone. What would it feel like, physically or mentally, to put himself utterly at the mercy of someone else as he slept? Being a light sleeper as he was, would he be able to lower his guard long enough to fall asleep, and stay that way, while curled up close with someone? Even someone he trusted with his life?

Beyond those purely practical considerations, sharing a bed, or a tent, carried implications that he hadn't been ready to accept. It was a measure of intimacy the other elf had clearly wanted, although he'd accepted Zevran's explanations and excuses up until this point. He'd been tempted, sorely tempted by Alessar before now, his feelings towards the Warden strong enough to override some of his instinctive wariness. But to raise this question tonight — was this a test of the assassin's commitment? That seemed almost petty; it was _Zevran,_after all, who had pushed their relationship, such as it was, into new territory when he'd offered his earring.

_Or could it simply be that he _needs_ this right now?_ he chided himself. _Can I truly deny him that?_

That was easy enough to answer — he didn't wish to deny Alessar anything, if he could help it. He might be quite bad at saying so, but, as the saying went in Ferelden, actions would speak louder than words. It was with actions, therefore, that he answered the other man's request: guiding his steps backwards towards the bed until the backs of his knees hit the down mattress, gently pushing him to sit down and pinning him in place with a slow, lingering kiss, and finally drawing away slowly to make his own preparations for bed. He could feel Alessar's eyes on him the entire time, and he half-wondered if the Warden expected him to suddenly vanish. When he finally returned to the bed, though, he was greeted with a soft, shy smile as Alessar seemed to accept that he was, in fact, going to stay.

_And that,_ Zevran thought as he extinguished the lamp on the bedside table, _is worth some sleep lost, I think._

* * *

Some time in the darkest hours of the night, the assassin was nudged awake, Alessar pawing at him while in the throes of some dream. There was no clear way to tell if the dream was pleasant or not; Zevran settled on giving the other elf a little shake to jar him out of it. It seemed to work, and the Warden subsided with a wordless murmur, drawing away from his touch.

It _had_ been difficult for Zevran to fall asleep with someone in such close proximity. At first, he'd simply waited for Alessar to drift off, curled up against him with his head resting on Zevran's chest. There had been something undeniably comfortable in that contact, something deeply intimate without being sexual, and for a while, he thought that perhaps he would be able to relax enough to sleep, himself. But he was hyper-aware of the man lying next to him, his nerves on edge and fighting to keep him awake. Even when Alessar eventually shifted away, leaving some space between them, Zevran could feel his very _presence,_as if through an extra sense, and his assassin's instincts would not let him rest.

Eventually, he'd fallen asleep somehow, but now he was awake again, and he suspected that he'd have just as much trouble getting back to sleep as he'd had earlier. He couldn't hold it against Alessar, though; the elven Warden had been so transparently happy to have him near, and _he,_at least, was sleeping more or less soundly. Something so simple wouldn't erase the memories of Fort Drakon, Zevran was sure, but if it cheered the other elf so very much... Surely he would become accustomed to this arrangement eventually, and until then, well, he'd been through plenty of sleepless nights in his life; what were a few more, for a good cause?

.fin.

* * *

_Author's Note:_

_This chapter went through a lot of pushing, pulling, hemming and hawing, but it's finally in a state of completion, I think, or close enough. ;) Apologies for the long delay - it's been everything from vacation, to work, to short one-shots getting my attention (which STILL need to get nicened up and posted here), to Dragon Age 2 (which, to be honest, has had minimal impact, creatively...). This should be the end of this rather long 24-hour period that's taken up 4 chapters of the story... ~_~ Next time: back to the actual game plot!_

A big thanks to **Sresla**, **Charnia** and **Raidho** for their input on this one! Check them out, they're all fantastic writers themselves!

_Dragon Age: Origins and all characters here besides Alessar belong to Bioware and their wonderful writers.  
_


	20. An Unheralded Homecoming

**Knot 20: An Unheralded Homecoming**

The next morning, the company greeted Alessar with varying levels of curiosity and concern. Leliana seemed to be the first to notice his new accessory; after she hugged him and held him at arms' length to give him a looking-over, her eyes lingered on the earring, and she smiled knowingly. To the elven Warden's inward relief, though, she said nothing, just squeezed his hands as she stepped back. The simple fact that at least one person was happy for them lifted Alessar's spirits, and he greeted the rest of his friends with a somewhat brighter countenance.

Talk over their hurried breakfast was of inconsequential things: the day's weather, the banns who had already been seen in town for the Landsmeet, speculation about the next Arl of Denerim. Talk of Fort Drakon was studiously avoided, and no one mentioned Alistair's sudden betrothal, either. Alessar wondered if the other Warden had told anyone yet, or whether it was just a touchy subject. They'd have to talk more about it soon, just the two of them.

He glanced over at his friend, who at that moment was wearing an expression of exasperated dismay. Zevran — sitting next to him and grinning mischievously — was the likely cause. The assassin had looked tired this morning, and Alessar knew why, but the other elf hadn't uttered a word of complaint. A habitual early riser, he'd greeted Alessar with a kiss and a gentle caress along his bare arm once the Warden crawled out of bed, wordless reassurances that he was still there, still _wanted _to be. He seemed fine now, as if he'd gotten plenty of sleep, but the Warden still felt guilty for it. He knew perfectly well that Zevran could get by on little sleep — all of them had been forced to do so at some time or other — but this had been a sacrifice made for Alessar's comfort more than anything. He'd already demanded too much of the other elf's attention in the past few days; stealing his rest was pure selfishness.

The Warden sighed silently. If they were fortunate, this uproar in the Alienage, whatever it was, could be settled peacefully, and fatigue wouldn't be an issue, but Alessar knew his kin, his people. For them to be stirred into rioting and unrest, something truly unpleasant must have been happening, and knowing that whatever it was had apparently been sanctioned by Howe and Loghain only worried him further.

He chose his team with care, feeling unexpectedly self-conscious about his former home. (_Former,_ he thought, _as if I have any home at all now._) He was in no mood for Morrigan's frequently disparaging comments, or Leliana's honest, but grating, pity. He couldn't even imagine the effect Sten's grim visage would have in the Alienage, and Oghren wouldn't be his first choice for dealing with so many elves, even if he meant well.

Zevran, of course, was a given. Wynne, Alessar suspected, had probably seen an alienage or two in her day. And Alistair... well. He was fairly nonthreatening, in spite of his plate mail, and for once, the elven Warden had an ulterior motive in bringing his friend along. If Alistair was going to be King, Alessar wanted him to know how _all_ of his subjects lived, especially right there in the capital city. When the elf had first arrived at Ostagar, Cailan told him that he'd never been allowed into the Alienage, and the Warden very much doubted Anora had ever been there, either, but if he could get Alistair to see what it was like...

Those were thoughts best saved for after the Blight, though — or at least after the Landsmeet. For now, they needed to take care of... whatever this was, and the sooner Alessar found out what was happening in the Alienage and saw his family again, the better he'd feel.

* * *

There was no guard posted at the Alienage gate near the market district today, perhaps due to confusion and a lack of orders in the wake of Howe's death. Unhindered, the group crossed over the bridge leading to the Alienage proper in silence, but Alessar halted at the foot of the bridge before stepping off.

It was foolish, but he was reluctant to take that last step. He realized that, deep down, he was afraid that if he entered the Alienage again, he'd never leave it. It had always seemed that way, when he was younger: older boys would try run away to the Dalish, but would later return — whether they'd actually found one of the wandering clans or not — resentful and ashamed; a successful family might try to move out and improve their lot, but the rancor of their human neighbors would drive them back into the Alienage walls. As long as you were city-born and pointy-eared, there was no other place for you.

He tried to tell himself that this was different: he was here to _fix_ something, to help his people, and hadn't come running here like a whipped dog with his tail between his legs. With a heavy sense of weakness, of failure, weighing him down, however, it was hard not to draw such comparisons...

A hand brushed along his forearm, a subtle touch of support. Alessar looked sidelong at Zevran, who had stepped up next to him. _What if you _made_ a place for yourself?_ the Warden wondered, his confidence slowly returning. _If you carved out a place of your own, outside of these walls, and forced them to acknowledge you on your own terms?_ Could Alessar achieve such a thing, as a Warden? And could he help others to do the same, either by example or by more direct means?

Well, he'd never accomplish much of anything by simply standing here, afraid to go forward. Taking a deep breath, he took that last step, back into the world where he'd lived his whole life until a year ago. The others, mercifully silent, followed.

In a few moments they came upon a startling sight — a group of young elves beating down a defenseless-looking human man. Meaning only to find out what was happening, Alessar shouted for them to stop, but the youths scattered before he could ask any questions, and the human, seeing the dragonhide-armored elven Warden with his hands on his daggers, begged not to be hurt as he staggered away. Alessar stared after him for a moment, at a loss.

"Unrest, indeed," Wynne said in a disapproving tone. "I take it such... outbursts are not the normal way of things, here?"

"Not when I was here," Alessar replied uneasily. "Something like that would bring the city guards down on us right away, and we all knew it."

"So either they do not care about the repercussions, or they know there will not be any," Zevran murmured. "Neither alternative is particularly promising."

"No," the younger elf agreed, shaking his head. He waved the group forward again, but was soon accosted by a beggar claiming to be a war veteran. Alessar recognized him, barely: his name was Mathel, a cabinet-maker's assistant, and his wife had died several years before. It was entirely possible he'd joined the King's army and marched to Ostagar, but in the Warden's mind, it didn't matter if he were truly a veteran or not; most of the Alienage elves were too proud to beg unless they were truly desperate. Since Alessar caught no hint of alcohol on the man's breath, he gave him a gold sovereign, hoping it would help for a little while.

"Andraste bless you, I won't forget your face, ser!" the man exclaimed, clutching the gold piece tightly.

The elven Warden managed a small smile before turning away, his fists clenched at his sides. They'd _already _forgotten his face, hadn't they? Was a year really such a long time?

Soon the _vhenadahl _came into view above the ramshackle buildings of the Alienage, moss hanging from its branches far overhead, just as Alessar remembered. The tree changed little through the years, except when a rare windstorm or heavy snowfall snapped boughs and sent them crashing to the ground. Most of the time, though, it bent to the wind and the burdens that weighed it down, much like the people who lived in its shade.

The muddy lane (it would have been generous to call it a _street_) that wound through most the Alienage was oddly deserted. There were normally more people here, running errands or chatting with their neighbors while their children were at play. Today it looked as if the only folk out and about were a scant handful of beggars and some visibly and audibly sick folk, and Alessar felt the first tremors of unease in the pit of his stomach. "Where is everyone?" he asked quietly, not really expecting an answer.

Before one of his companions could offer some sort of calming remark, he began walking again, this time taking a few quick strides towards a very familiar door. With a motion ingrained into the muscles of his arm, he reached towards the knob, but then paused, as if some force had made it impossible for him to open the door. Perhaps one had, but the force wasn't physical in nature. What if some other family lived here now? What if his father...

"Your home, _cielo?_" Zevran asked softly. Alessar could only nod in reply, his throat suddenly tight. "Do not keep your father waiting, my dear Warden," the Antivan elf urged him. "I am sure he will be very happy to see you."

The Warden glanced back at the others as he was struck by the sobering realization that he was the only one of them who'd been raised by his own parents. All three of them looked at him with slightly expectant looks of encouragement, and he suspected that Alistair would open the door in a moment if he didn't. With a small smile, he turned back and tried the door. It stuck slightly, as it tended to do in damp weather, but it wasn't locked, and it was a simple matter to push the door open and step inside.

At the rough-hewn wooden table by the fireplace, his cousin Soris had risen to his feet, and was now staring at him.

"_Alessar?_ You're... you're back! Come in, come in!" Soris kept glancing at Alessar's companions, then back at him, obviously struggling to understand what exactly what happening. "We assumed you were with the other Wardens at Ostagar when... well, you know."

"The two of us," the elven Warden explained, gesturing towards Alistair, "were the only Fereldan Wardens who survived the battle. We're... all that's left." As he spoke, he glanced around, taking in the state of the place. It seemed neat, tidy as always; his father's gardening tools rested in their assigned places and looked well-tended, not dusty with disuse, and the firewood rack was full. The house felt strangely empty, though, _quiet,_just as it had been outside.

"Oh." Soris was obviously trying to figure out what to make of this news. "That must be—"

"Where's my father?" Alessar interrupted, that sense of unease returning.

The red-haired elf seemed hesitant to answer at first, but after a moment, he said, "The healers took him into quarantine a few days ago. I'm sorry, cousin."

The Warden took a step back, as if trying to retreat from the words. "Healers? _Quarantine?_ For what?"

Soris turned away, picking up one of the fire irons and agitatedly poking at the smoldering wood in the fireplace. "They say it's plague. It's something to do with the Blight, come out of the south with the refugees. Some healers came to help us, and they set up a hospice on the north side of the square. That's where they're keeping everyone who's been quarantined."

_Plague! _Alessar didn't even want to think about it. His father was healthy, he had to be fine. He'd just have to go to this hospice to see him, and talk to these healers. "On the north side of the square," he repeated. His cousin nodded, looking at him a little oddly. "You're here — where's Shianni? Valora? Nesiara?"

"Shianni's probably out at the square, harassing the healers. She doesn't trust them — they're humans, and... well..." Soris looked from Alessar to the others, clearly not wanting to say too much. "You know." He shrugged slightly. "Nesiara went back to Highever. There wasn't really anything for her here, and her parents returned the bride-price to bring her home."

"Ah." There wasn't much the elven Warden could say to that, but he hoped that she was at least safe and back with her family. She had seemed like a pleasant enough girl, but... it simply wasn't meant to be, for a dozen different reasons. "And Valora?"

Soris simply looked at his cousin for a moment. "They took her into quarantine a week ago," he said finally. "They said she had the plague, too. I didn't believe it. I mean, she was fine! But I haven't seen her since they took her in."

Alessar frowned. "She seemed fine to you? And my father, too?"

"Valora seemed perfectly healthy to me," the other elf said, nodding, "and I hadn't heard of your father being ill..."

"How are these healers just... pulling people into quarantine? What's Valendrian got to say about this?" the Warden asked, trying to keep his voice from rising in a mixture of anger and anxiety.

Soris met his glance steadily, and after a moment of silence, he said, "They took Valendrian days ago. No one's seen or heard from him since."

"I... I see." Alessar had more questions, but his cousin was subdued and oddly unhelpful, as if he didn't want to be involved. Maybe Shianni would have more to say, or Alarith — the shopkeeper heard _everything _that went on here. "I'm going to go find out what's going on in that hospice," he said as he glanced at his companions. They all gave him varying looks of agreement.

"All right." Soris was watching him, his expression hard to decipher. "It's been... difficult, since you've been gone, cousin, but it's good to see you again."

_Difficult? More so than it always is?_ Well, if it was something urgent, surely Soris would have said so. "And you, cousin. We'll talk later." As soon as the other elf acknowledged him with a nod, Alessar turned to leave, the others on his heels.

"To the hospice, then?" Alistair asked as they stepped out into the lane.

"There's someone I want to talk to first," the elven Warden replied, shaking his head. "I don't like the sound of any of this." Setting a brisk pace, he led the group to Alarith's store, just off the square. He tried to keep his head down to avoid attracting any attention for the moment, but if Mathel's response was typical, he might not have been recognized anyway.

Alarith was just as surprised to see the elven Warden as Soris had been, though his laid-back manner might have made it difficult for Alessar's companions to tell as much. He had much the same news as Soris, with one additional bit of information.

"These healers are _Tevinters?_" Wynne asked sharply.

"I know what you're thinking, ma'am," Alarith said, raising his hands in a gesture of surrender, "but the Chantry sent a Templar as soon as they heard the word 'magic.' And if they didn't drive them out, I guess they must be all right."

"Hmm, I suppose so," the mage agreed, though she didn't look entirely reassured.

After his experiences dealing with blood mages thus far, Alessar didn't like the sound of that, either. Why Tevinters? With the Fereldan Circle decimated, perhaps they'd been the only help available, but...

A few more minutes of conversation finally gave Alessar an explanation of those ominous words he'd heard months ago: the purging of the Alienage. When Howe had come to power in the wake of Vaughan's death, he'd sent soldiers into the Alienage to teach the elves "proper deference". They'd killed anyone who'd offered the slightest hint of resistance or belligerence, and the rest of the elves had turned on Soris, blaming him and his presumably deceased cousin for bringing this down on them.

_Never mind that we all agreed that the girls should be rescued,_ Alessar thought bitterly. _Never mind that we actually did it! Except for poor Nola, we brought them back. Was that the wrong thing to do? Were they supposed to be _sacrifices_ to the humans, to keep the peace?_

"Lad, are you all right?" Alarith's voice pulled him from his thoughts, and he took a deep, ragged breath.

"Yes, yes, I'm fine, sorry. It's just..." he trailed off. "It's too much. Why is it so..." Unable to articulate his frustration and anger, the Warden just waved his hands helplessly.

"I know what you mean, believe me." The shopkeeper wore a small, sympathetic smile. "Why don't you go find Shianni? She'll be overjoyed to see you — and maybe you can talk some sense into her. If she keeps badgering those healers, their guards will try to shut her up..."

"Yes, I'd better find her," the Warden agreed distractedly. His thoughts kept coming back to one central point: others — many others, by the sound of it — thought he was to blame for all of this. Soris had been with him, but it had been Alessar who'd killed Vaughan and accepted the punishment, and Alessar who had left, not for a dungeon cell, but for the wider world as a Grey Warden. Once the people of the Alienage learned he was alive, would they turn all the venom they'd cast upon Soris towards him instead?

_I can handle being despised,_ he told himself, remembering their treatment in Orzammar. As the group left the shop, he forced himself to ignore the fact that this was a great deal more personal to him than the bitter, deadly rivalries of dwarven politics, and that people he'd known all his life might have cursed his name to the Black City when Howe's soldiers came. Regardless of whether they hated him or not, he was here to help them — and no matter what they said or did to him, he would _not_ let that stop him from finding his father. His duty to his family overshadowed whatever obligations he had to the Queen and to the Wardens, right now.

The square that surrounded the _vhenadahl_ was the Alienage's main gathering-place, and it seemed that most of the folk who lived inside the walls were there, many of them in line in front of what Alessar had to assume was now the hospice. It was one of the largest buildings in the Alienage, with pride of place so close to the _vhenadahl_. He had to wonder what had happened to the Esterins, the family who had previously lived there. With their relative wealth (compared to the rest of the Alienage), had they managed to flee Ferelden entirely? Or had something more unpleasant happened? He'd have to ask Alarith later.

Elves seldom queued up for anything here; the unusual sight of so many of them in one place made Alessar painfully aware of how vulnerable they really were to any sort of epidemic. "If it's really plague... Maker's mercy..." he said, barely above a whisper.

"Blights bring disease in their wake," Wynne noted, her tone grave. "You've seen what happens to the very land itself." The mage's lips thinned in a severe frown. "But this matter of quarantining healthy people... that would only serve to spread the disease among those who did not have it. I'd like to speak with these healers, myself."

"We _will _talk to them," Alessar promised, "and soon." His first priority, however, was finding his cousin. He stood in place for a moment, scanning the square for that distinctive red hair that marked so many of his relatives. The air was full of voices: worried, complaining, and angry tones rang out all around them. Above the general buzz of the crowd, though, one voice in particular caught his ear — a voice he had last heard from an illusion in the resting place of Andraste's ashes.

"Oh, you're _helping _us, are you, shem? Like you helped Valendrian and my uncle Cyrion? Helped them never to be seen again?"

Shianni stood outside of the queue, near the door of the hospice; from behind, the Warden could see the defiance in her posture. The Tevinter mage she was addressing replied exasperatedly about not letting the plague spread by allowing visitors, but then Shianni rebutted with the question Alessar wanted to ask, himself — "If this healing spell of yours works, why are half the people you quarantine perfectly healthy?"

The mage ignored her, turning his attention back to the elves in the queue. Alessar saw Shianni's fists clench at her sides, but he also saw the armed guards standing at the door of the hospice with the mages. Before his cousin could press forward and get herself into real trouble, the elven Warden called her, drawing some curious, then disbelieving, looks from the crowd.

Shianni turned to look for whoever was addressing her, then saw Alessar and gaped in utter surprise. "I don't believe it," she said slowly, coming closer, but stopping out of arm's reach, as if afraid to come too close and pierce the illusion. "Maker's breath! They said all the Grey Wardens died with the king. We all thought... Valendrian even held a funeral for you."

Alessar shook his head, not even sure where to begin. "We're the only two Wardens left," he murmured, indicating Alistair with his thumb. "And we barely got away with our lives. We've been on the move constantly ever since."

All the elven woman could do was nod, still looking at him intently, as if trying to detect visually just how much he'd changed in the past year. "Cousin... you have no idea what's happened here, what it's been like since your wedding."

"I talked a little to Soris, and to Alarith," the Warden began, before Zevran interrupted him.

"A wedding?" The assassin spoke volumes with those two words. There was a sense of breathlessness in his voice — _as if he'd had the wind knocked out of him, _Alessar thought guiltily. "So you do have a secretive side, after all."

"The wedding never actually happened," he said carefully, trying not to let the words all pour out in a rush. He ignored Shianni's curious look and Alistair's flabbergasted expression as he held Zevran's gaze.

"No?" The other elf's slightly cool expression turned to one of speculation. "Did she find out that you pre—"

"She was abducted," Alessar said quickly, his haste to interrupt making his voice sound harsher than he meant it to. "I've told you part of _that_ story before."

It only took a moment for Zevran to realize which story he meant. "Ah. _Ah._" He glanced briefly toward Shianni, who was now frowning fiercely at her cousin. "A fateful day, indeed," he said solemnly.

"Is this... um... fateful day something we should know more about?" Alistair said hesitantly in the brief moment of silence. "Does this have something to do with the 'purge' the others mentioned?"

Shianni looked as if she would say something sharp; Alessar raised a hand to forestall her and turned to the two humans.

"On the day I was to wed — Soris and I both — Vaughan Kendalls and two of his cronies came here, interrupted the wedding, and took away four women, including the two brides," he explained tersely, avoiding looking at Shianni as he spoke.

"So it's true?" Alistair asked, shaken. "You killed him for that?"

The elven Warden shook his head slightly. "Soris and I went into the palace to rescue the women, and that was all, but we had to go through Vaughan." After a moment he added, unable to keep the venom out of his voice, "Not that I wasn't happy to do so."

Wynne pursed her lips, but said nothing; Alessar couldn't tell if she was disapproving of his actions, or of Vaughan's, but at the moment he didn't much care. He glanced at his brother-Warden, who was trying to put all the pieces together.

"So... you killed Vaughan, but then... Duncan must have recruited you to save you." When Alessar nodded in agreement, the Templar trainee forged on. "But when Howe became Arl here, he attacked the Alienage because of what had happened."

Alessar nodded again, feeling his stomach twist into knots. How many had been killed for no reason...?

"It wasn't just because of Alessar," Shianni interjected, trying to defend her cousin. "The whole Alienage was in an uproar over the — the boldness of it, those bastards just walking in here and... and just _taking _women like we're slaves! But..." She trailed off, looking at Alessar.

"But what Soris and I did gave them an excuse," the Warden said bleakly.

"That's not fair," the other elf objected, but she subsided at a level look from her cousin.

"Regardless of how unfair it may be, my dear Shianni," Zevran said smoothly, "it is an unfortunate bit of politics. It seems, however, that those events have little to do with these Tevinter healers. Or am I wrong?"

Shianni regarded the unfamiliar elf appraisingly. "No, you're right. They showed up after the sick refugees from the south started pouring in. They must have permission to be here, but they're up to no good in there, I know it!" Her voice rose in volume as she made her anger apparent.

"You're just paranoid, Shianni! They've helped us, and you know it!" a woman shouted from the queue. "Both of my sisters got protection from the plague, and they're fine!"

"Yeah, but they didn't go _into _the hospice, did they?" Shianni snapped back. "What about your oldest niece, where is she? Or my uncle Cyrion? Or Valendrian?"

"Father— Soris said he'd gone to the hospice," Alessar cut in, looking not at his cousin, but at the building, and the guards at the door.

"He went yesterday," Shianni confirmed, turning back to the elven Warden with an expression of worry. "I told him not to! No one who's actually gone in—" here she turned to glare at the woman in the queue— "has come out."

_Just yesterday. He might still be— _Alessar didn't want to even think of the alternative. "All right. I'm going to find out what's going on in there." He glanced at the rest of his group to see if they meant to come along, because he intended to go, with or without them.

"Not alone, you're not," Alistair said staunchly. Wynne nodded in agreement, or approval, no doubt curious about what the Tevinters were up to, if nothing else.

Zevran merely gave his lover a thin smile, one that Alessar knew by now as his "assassin-work to be done" expression. Turning to Shianni, he asked, lowering his voice, "Does this building have a back door?"

"Yes, in the alleyway. There's only one guard back there, I think, and no crowds of people." The red-haired elf looked at Alessar, and the pride in her expression was almost too much to take. "Oh, cousin, it's so good to have you back. I knew you'd do something about this if you were here!"

The elven Warden's mind turned then to recent events that Shianni was blissfully unaware of; he wondered if she'd still have so much confidence in him if she knew.

.fin.

* * *

_Author's Note: _This took a bit of replaying and a bit of thought, and so ended up taking longer than I would have liked — though there was a vacation and some other personal nonsense in the middle, there, too. XD; Hopefully it'll be less than 3 months before the next bit, which follows pretty closely after this one.

Big thank you's to **Sresla** and **Corker** for beta'ing this!

P.S. Importing this over to FFNet seems to have munged up some of the formatting around the italics — hopefully I've caught all of the weird run-togethers...


End file.
